


Through Sky and Glass

by FenHarellan (rogueofstorms)



Series: Lavellan's Tale [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cameo, F/M, Gen, Trespasser, the sky and the wolf continuation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6875242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogueofstorms/pseuds/FenHarellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Fen'Falon Lavellan continue after the defeat of Corpyheus. Cynical, bitter, and left behind by Solas with no explanation, Fen'Falon chafes at being the Inquisitor. One day Fen'Falon has had enough of being a figurehead for the humans of the Inquisition, and that is where our story begins...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Huzzah! Finally got a chapter written for this. Now that I've started this should flow onwards pretty well. :)

Two months of watching the guards, of hiding things in tiny caches on a path out of Skyhold, or pretending to be fine every time the advisors of the Inquisition asked her if she was okay. Two months, and finally Fen’Falon felt like she was ready to escape from Skyhold.

To those who saw her as the Inquisitor, leader of the Inquisition and most feared power in all of Thedas now that Corypheus had been dead six months, it would seem odd that the Inquisitor would need to escape from her own stronghold.

Those Inquisition loyalists did not realise that the Inquisitor was a figurehead. Placed there to placate the masses when she became the only person capable of closing rifts and the Breach, Fen’Falon had been trapped. In the first four months after the Breach was permanently closed and Corypheus defeated, Fen’Falon had been brought back to Skyhold by the ex-Templar Cullen multiple times.

And so Fen’Falon stayed awake until the late hours of the night, carefully putting together a pack with necessities. She shouldered the pack and crept down the tower stairs, relieved to discover that waiting an extra month had been the right call - Cullen had stopped posting a guard at her door “for protection”. 

After she checked to make sure the main hall was clear, Fen’Falon crossed it to the library tower and made her way out a side door. One of her caches of food was hidden in the wall just outside, so Fen’Falon picked it up before she snuck down the gate tower. A second cache was on the far side of the soldiers’ camp, and was also successfully retrieved before Fen’Falon made it to the pass through the mountains. Dawn broke and she was forcefully reminded of the journey to Skyhold less than a year ago, Solas leading the way to the Inquisition’s new home.

Fen’Falon made it all the way to the hidden tunnels beneath Haven before night fell again. This time, there was no white wolf to lead the way, and no blizzard to hamper progress. She made camp in the tunnels after a careful check to ensure that it was clear of the giant spiders she had encountered last time.

Dawn filtered into the tunnels slowly as Fen’Falon nibbled on some cheese and bread from her pack. Once the food was stored away again, the elven mage picked her way through the snow and rock filled tunnels until she reached the spot where she had fallen after Corypheus’s dragon had attacked her.

From Haven it was nearly half a day’s walk to the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes - the site of the final battle between the Inquisition and Corypheus, and where the Breach was finally sealed forever. The thinness of the Veil made Fen’Falon shiver as she cautiously searched the Temple for any signs of Solas.

Even in the remains of the Temple room where Corypheus died, there was nothing to indicate that Solas had ever been there. The cracked pieces of the orb that Solas had so wished to see were gone as well, and Fen’Falon wondered if Solas had been the one to gather them up.

Fen’Falon was so deep into her investigation that she didn’t hear the approach of men until one of them shouted.

“There she is!” he said. Fen’Falon turned to see an Inquisition scout standing on top of a pile of rubble. Shortly after his shout, four others joined him.

“Inquisitor!” The scout continued. “We’re here to take you back to Skyhold - your advisors have been looking for you!”

Fen’Falon ignored the scout and soldiers and instead gathered her pack, making sure to strap it on tightly. She could hear the scout clambering down the rubble into the Temple itself, and as the footsteps finally drew closer than she would like, Fen’Falon bolted for one of the many ways away from the Temple.

She took a zig-zag path through the ruined walls and piles of rubble, always heading out of the mountains. It was two days before Fen’Falon felt secure enough to stop zagging across the forest, and five days before she reached the road to Orzammar.

Orzammar was strange to the ex-Inquisitor, populated as it was by a race that barely reached the bottom of her ribcage. Only a bare handful of dwarves had ever been at Skyhold, and Fen’Falon was really only aware of Harding and the other female dwarf obsessed with magic.  

Fen’Falon took the opportunity to stock up on supplies and managed to barter for a horse - a short, stocky, and very long-maned creature with a poor attitude. Fen’Falon called it ‘Pride’ and hoped that somewhere a certain jerk was writhing at being compared to a horse that was little better than a pony.

Pride gave Fen’Falon a look that suggested a bite was imminent. After three days of riding with the beastly creature, Fen’Falon had received her fair share of bites when an arm got too close to the horse’s head.

“Oh shush you,” Fen’Falon told the horse. She had just passed Crestwood, making good time to reach Amaranthine to catch a ship. Fen’Falon was hoping to visit the last known camping grounds of Clan Lavellan, and perhaps in the Free Marches she could find answers that weren’t available in Ferelden or Orlais.

Pride chuffed in response. Fen’Falon clucked at the horse and spurred him into a canter - the faster she reached Amaranthine and got onto the ship, the harder it would be for Cullen or Cassandra to figure out how to bring her back to Skyhold.

Fen’Falon kept the faster pace for the next day and a half and was rewarded in the early evening with the sight of Amaranthine’s walls. Seeing the walls outside the city, the mage found it difficult to believe that the Warden had had such trouble here only a little more than a decade ago.

The elven mage found an inn near the docks and sold Pride to pay for the night’s lodging, with enough left over to take ship to Ostwick in the morning. It was a cargo ship, wide-bottomed and with only two masts, designed for the calm that characterised the mouth of the Waking Sea. The captain hadn’t wanted to take Fen’Falon at all, especially when he realised she was a mage; Fen’Falon ended up paying twice what she should have and was forced to show the captain an Inquisition Agent badge that she’d brought with her. In the end, the badge had tipped the scales - the whole world was grateful for the Inquisition in these months following the defeat of Corypheus.

Unfortunately, using the badge would also mean talk about a Inquisition Agent taking ship to Ostwick. Fen’Falon wouldn’t have much time to leave the city for Wycome’s surrounding lands if she wanted to avoid being caught out by one of the many spies her advisors had in the Free Marches.

The trip to Ostwick was uneventful, with neither extreme calm nor storms to harry the passage. Fen’Falon got the impression that the captain was glad to be rid of her - mage freedom was still far too new for the common folk to be accustomed to apostates travelling in the open, Inquisition backing or no.

With too little in her money pouches to purchase another horse, Fen’Falon set herself a decent walking pace and made her way through Ostwick and down the road to Markham. 


	2. The Last Lavellan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently airports and my muse agree with each other! I'm on vacation in the USVI this weekend, so maybe I'll get a few chapters written and can post them all when I get back :)

Wycome was disturbingly...human. Fen’Falon didn’t often feel the need to call them  _ shemlen _ as a pejorative, but in Wycome it felt justified. She was refused service at inns and taverns, and called knife-ear more times than she could count. As a free mage, Fen’Falon couldn’t allow her temper to get the better of her, since the Templars of the Free Marches were looking for any excuse at all to restart the Mage-Templar War.

Despite the rampant prejudice against elves, Fen’Falon did manage to overhear the information she’d gone into the city to acquire. Two off-duty guardsmen had been helpfully talkative with each other - one lamenting having been sick, and the other gleefully recounting his part in the slaughter of “those dirty thieving elves” that wandered outside the city.

As Fen’Falon made her exit from the city, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck and spun, sure that someone was following her. Nothing. Humans going about their business, no buildings with open windows nearby, the guards interested only in seeing her on her way out.

Two pairs of eyes watched the elven mage leave Wycome and took note. One stayed behind, and the other followed the mage at a discreet distance. 

The watchers too, were being watched by a single set of eyes, who took note in detail of who was watching and why.

Half a day’s walk saw Fen’Falon to ruins of what had been Lavellan’s camp. Burnt shells of  _ aravel _ wheels made a false faerie ring around a pile of bones and armour. As the wind picked up momentarily, the smell of ash and burnt hair drifted to Fen’Falon and she gagged. More than six months and still this gruesome monument remained. No one had bothered to hide what they had done to the “knife-ears” that supposedly plagued the nearby city.

In a way, Fen’Falon was grateful that the  _ shemlen _ had burned her kin - it meant none were left to be recognised, none for Fen’Falon to regret her own history with the clan. 

“ _ Hahren na melana sahlin, emma ir abelas, souver'inan isala hamin, vhenan him dor'felas, in uthenera na revas, vir sulahn'nehn, vir dirthera, vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa'vunin _ ,” Fen’Falon murmured to herself. The ancient elven eulogy sprang from her chapped lips without prompting from memory, having been learned years ago from Keeper Deshanna. 

Fen’Falon came back to full awareness to find that she was kneeling in front of the grisly monument made from her clan’s bones. There were no saplings for her to plant as was the custom, so the mage settled for using fire magic to burn the image of a tree into the ground near the pile of bones.

She spent the night sleeping in the branches of a tree near the remains of Clan Lavellan, and used the cleared area as a camp for the next several days while she figured out how to find Solas.

Given how upset Solas had been with the loss of the orb, it seemed likely to Fen’Falon that he might have gone looking for another - to what end, she couldn’t divine, but it was the best course of action available to her. Anything that didn’t mean going back to the Inquisition.

Before she went anywhere though, Fen’Falon needed to deprive the  _ shemlen _ of their trophies. She searched through the  _ aravel _ husks and was rewarded with a version of Keeper’s robes. As the lone member of the Lavellan, Fen’Falon was Keeper by default, and decided that she would wear these with pride in lieu of her  _ vallaslin _ . Some small amounts of foodstuffs remained in the other  _ aravels _ , made near useless by exposure.

With nothing left of importance in the ring, Fen’Falon called down a firestorm and watched until only ashes were left in the clearing. She put an early afternoon sun slightly to her right and began the walk to reach the road back to Markham.

She was a full day away from Wycome when she saw a pair of silhouettes on the horizon heading in her direction. She briefly wondered if the two people were coming to or from Wycome, but was distracted by the sound of armour behind her.

Fen’Falon spun and found herself facing an olive-skinned human with red hair and wicked curving blade held out.

“Normally,” the human man said, his voice oddly accented, “I would have struck you down with a dagger in the back as you walked. But our client wanted you to know that the Crows have been contracted against you. Prepare yourself!” The man shouted as he leapt forward to attack Fen’Falon.

Fen’Falon used a mind blast to bounce the human away from her while she drew her staff and set herself in position for a fight. Two more humans and an elf wearing all the same armour leapt into the fray from the nearby treeline, and Fen’Falon found herself beset from all sides.

She swept an arcing circle of lightning around herself, extending the staff to its full length as she gripped the metal tip, blade facing her enemies. The elven assassin took advantage of a brief gap in the spellwork to lunge in at Fen’Falon and managed to score a deep slice on the mage’s upper arm. Fen’Falon responded by twirling her staff into a vertical position, then slamming it into the ground to shake the earth. The four assassins fell to the ground and Fen’Falon took the opportunity to strike at them with chain lightning. 

The human that Fen’Falon had hit with her mind blast screamed as the lightning danced across his skin and passed out. Three left to deal with.

Two elves, one in armour similar to that of the assassins, the other in what appeared to be Tevinter-style mage robes, arrived on the scene.

“Going to attack me, too?” Fen’Falon asked as she viciously impaled a second assassin on the blade end of her staff.

“Only if you attack us first,” the other mage replied, her accent pure Ferelden. Fen’Falon realised that the woman must have been a Circle mage, to so lack any tie to the Dalish.

“So you aren’t,” Fen’Falon paused to dodge a dagger thrown by the elven assassin and retaliated with a large lightning bolt, “you aren’t with these assholes?”

“No,” the elven man replied, his teeth flashing white against tanned skin. “It may even be possible that we are here to help you.”

“So bloody well help me then!” Fen’Falon cried as she tried to fend off her elven attacker. The two new elves jumped in, as if they had been waiting to be invited, and with a flurry of blades and ice magic, the three assassins that had remained were dispatched.

Fen’Falon caught her breath as she leaned on her staff. “Who the Void are you two, anyway? And why help me?”

“So suspicious of us, my dear,” the man commented to the other mage.

“Like I was any different when we first met,” the mage woman chuckled. The woman turned to address Fen’Falon directly. “I am Aemry Arainai, and this incorrigible flirt is my husband, Zevran.”

“At your service, my lady Inquisitor,” Zevran said with a bow. He flicked his head from side to side as he came up from the overdone bow to clear a few stray blond strands from his face. He was strikingly handsome in a way that Solas had never been - tanned skin contrasted sharply against the palest blond hair Fen’Falon had ever seen on an elf, and pale brown eyes only complimented his looks. His wife Aemry was similarly striking with jet black hair pulled back into a messy bun reminiscent of Morrigan, and reddish tan to her skin that suggested she was unused to the sun. Opposite in looks, but apparently the pair shared a similar sense of humour about things like being attacked by assassins.

Fen’Falon brushed off Zevran’s attempt at flirting with a wave of her hand. “Thank you for the assistance, but why? Did you know I was being targeted?”

Aemry laughed. “To be honest we thought they were originally after us - we had planned to use ourselves as bait to help clean out the Crows.” Aemry gave Fen’Falon a searching look. “Why should the Crows be contracted to kill you, I wonder?” she asked.

Fen’Falon scoffed. “I thought everyone knew my face by now, in or out of my usual armour. Guess I finally got lucky. I’m the Lavellan.”

“The Inqisitor,” Fen’Falon nodded at Zevran. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind terribly if we travelled with you for a while? We have business with the Crows and you seem the type to attract them for a while yet.”

Company would be nice, but Fen’Falon wasn’t sure that she wanted two apparently crazy elves along with her. “Where are you two headed?”

“We are going to investigate some interesting events in the Imperium,” Aemry replied.

“I guess I can head that way for a while, I just need to be away from Ferelden long enough that they stop looking.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Zevran said and laughed.


	3. Where It All Began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not want to write. At all. But I finally pushed it through! \o/

“I feel bad for leaving Amaranthine the way I did,” Aemry said. Two days on the road with the Arainai elves and Fen’Falon had been swapping stories with them as they walked.

Fen’Falon grinned. “What, leave behind a pirate queen who wanted to join the pair of you in a triad?”

Zevran laughed. “No, that was Denerim, Ink. Amaranthine was left picking up the pieces of a rather vicious battle, if I remember rightly, my dear?”

“You do, Zev,” Aemry replied. “Justice wasn’t happy with me, much less the seneschal of the keep, but the life of a Ferelden noble was not my calling. And when Zev here showed up with his wicked grin and some half-formed plans about taking over the Crows, well, I had to help him out.”

Facts started to click together in Fen’Falon’s mind. Amaranthine left a wreck, companions named Justice, and Nathaniel, and Oghren. Mention of Wardens, travel to Denerim…

“Hold on,” Fen’Falon cried out and stopped in her tracks on the road. Zevran and Aemry turned to look at her. “You’re Warden Surana?!”

Zevran held out a hand to his wife. “Pay up, my love.”

Aemry grumbled. “I know, keep your armour on--”

“Only because we are in public,” Zevran leered at Aemry.

“Like that has stopped you before, you horrible creature,” Aemry swatted Zevran as she passed him two gold coins. 

Fen’Falon glared at both the other elves. “You nutjobs bet on me?”

“Only in jest, my friend,” Zevran said. “We had wondered how long it would take you to realise that my wife was the Hero of Ferelden.”

Aemry bent down as if picking something up from the ground and tugged on one of Zevran’s ankles, bringing him crashing into the dusty road. One of Zevran’s hands shot out and dragged Aemry down on top of him, where he proceed to kiss his wife apparently senseless.

Fen’Falon looked away, suddenly cross. “If you two are done being lovestruck idiots?” she said tartly. The elven couple giggled and kissed each other soundly, then Zevran got to his feet and pulled his wife up after him.

“Sorry, Fen’Falon,” Aemry said. “You have to admit it was amusing, though. Two whole days!”

“For you maybe,” Fen’Falon muttered.

They were on the outskirts of Kirkwall and it had been a very trying few days for Fen’Falon. Zevran and Aemry, despite being significantly older than Fen’Falon, behaved like wild younglings, spurring each other into silliness. Fen’Falon was starting to wonder how the pair ever became legends - because the tales surely made no mention of such immature behaviour.

Fen’Falon’s first sight of Kirkwall banished any thought of her traveling companions. The road they were following led down the Wounded Coast; to the right was Sundermount, Kirkwall’s mountain, and to the left was the sea entrance to Kirkwall. Fen’Falon could just make out the enormous statues of weeping slaves that guarded the passage, and as her gaze swept back towards the City of Chains itself, she could see that the gate into the city from the road was flanked by a matching pair of the same statues. 

As the trio of elves got closer to the gate, Fen’Falon could see the damage sustained from the event that started the Mage-Templar War. Even after a few years, scorch marks on stone and slagged masonry could still be found around Kirkwall.  Guards stood at the gate, checking incoming visitors for contraband and forged paperwork.

“You there, mage!” A guard called out. Fen’Falon looked around to see who the guard was referring to.

“You, knife-ear, the one that just looked around,” the guard called again and looked pointedly at Fen’Falon.  _ Shit _ , she thought.

Aemry must have caught Fen’Falon’s brief moment of panic and put a hand on Fen’Falon’s shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, Fen, we will sort this for you,” Aemry said quietly.

“Thanks,” Fen’Falon replied. This was not the place to reveal that she was Inquisition - the Free Marches hadn’t taken kindly to the interference put up by the organisation. 

Aemry pulled Fen’Falon behind her, tapped Zevran in a pattern, and walked up to the guard. Zevran remained in between the guards and Fen’Falon.

“Guardsman…” Aemry led.

“Jimma. Who the hell are you?” 

“Guardsman Jimma, I would watch your tongue a bit more carefully. I am former Warden-Commander Surana. This mage is a new recruit, and  _ will not be harassed in this fashion am I clear _ ?” To Fen’Falon, Aemry suddenly seemed larger and commanded more respect that any of the Inquisition ever had. The Inquisitor also appreciated the deception - as a Warden recruit, Fen’Falon would be untouchable by the laws. 

The guard looked ready to piss himself as he replied. “I-I’m sorry Warden. Welcome to Kirkwall.”

Still looking imperious, Aemry swept past the guards, Zevran and Fen’Falon following in her wake. The city of Kirkwall was still rebuilding, as Fen’Falon could see scaffolding and other signs of repair work here and there. Rubble was collected in alleys and there was sense of dimness to the city that Fen’Falon had never encountered outside of the Deep Roads.

They stayed in the city for three days. Zevran made witty jokes and flirted outrageously with everything, Aemry flirted back at Zevran, and Fen’Falon mostly tried to enjoy being in a new city, even if it was Kirkwall.

There was a brief attempt by both Zevran and Aemry to drag Fen’Falon into a threesome with them, but after Fen’Falon explained about Solas, they left her alone. After roping her, almost literally, into their bed and snuggling against her forcibly for a few hours.

They were a very odd pair of elves, Fen’Falon decided, but meant well.

On day five, Fen’Falon was wasting time while she meandered through Hightown’s market. One man swore loudly that he was Champion Hawke’s business partner and had once had a dragon in his mines, which Fen’Falon was disinclined to believe. A varterral on the other hand...Zevran had shared a terse story about being hunted by the Crows and getting stuck in a shallow miner’s cave with one of the ancient beasts. According to the assassin, Lady Hawke and her crew had saved him from the creature and the Crows.

A dagger at a nearby stall caught her eye. Fen’Falon walked over and picked up the dagger as the stall’s owner kept an eye on her. 

“Elven make?” Fen’Falon asked.

“The finest,” the stallkeep replied. “Not my usual stock, but my supplier found it in a ruin and figured I would make some coin from it.”

Fen’Falon nodded and turned the dagger over in her hands. It  _ was _ well-made, and the steel had a wave embedded in it that spoke of true craftsmanship and a mastery of bladesmithing that few had in this age.

“Is there a sheath for it?” 

“Nah, but the swordsmith in the dwarven quarter can probably make you a custom one, lass.”

“I’ll take it, but only if you tell me how your supplier got it.”

The stallkeep named a figure and Fen’Falon countered with a very low amount. The two set to haggling, and Fen’Falon eventually came away with the dagger for a solid 10 gold and the story of the dagger’s acquisition.

“So, the tale of how I got that dagger,” the stallkeep started. “According to my supplier, he was on his way up the coast of the Waking Sea in Nevarra when he stumbled. He’s normally surefooted, to hear him puff himself up like a noble, so he was surprised and investigated. He widened the hole and found an ancient elven ruin out there. Apparently the placed freaked him out so much he just left after finding the dagger. Fed me some dragon dung about it being haunted.”

Fen’Falon laughed along with the stall owner, but privately considered that there was truth to the tale. Ancient elven ruins, especially those built closer to the Fall of Arlathan, tended to have powerful curses on them meant to ward away those not of elven blood. Tales like this also had a way of running through a rumour mill, so Fen’Falon made her way to an information broker for a precise location.

Word in the city was spreading fast, according to the stumpy dwarf she found, and treasure hunters were starting to make their way down the coast on the hunt for ancient elven treasures. With a precise location, however, Fen’Falon was hopeful that she could convince Zevran and Aemry to detour through the ruins with her.  She made her way back to their rooms at a Hightown inn to rope them into it.

She was quite unsurprised to find them at the bar top, drinking their way through a pitcher of ale. 

“Hello Zev, Aemry,” she called to them. Luckily, the pair had saved her a seat next to Zevran.

“Feeeeeen~” Aemry warbled. Apparently the Warden was drunk.

“We are glad that you made it back in one piece, my oblivious friend,” Zevran said cheerfully.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Fen’Falon muttered.

Zevran quirked an eyebrow at the mage. “You could always fuck it out of me,” he purred.

Fen’Falon swatted Zevran’s arm. “I have a request, if you’re able,” she said.

“I’m all ears, my inquisitive friend.”

“How do you feel about wandering an ancient elven ruin near Nevarra? Rumour has it there’s plenty of treasure to be found.”

Zevran pulled Fen’Falon into a tight hug and whispered something naughty in her ear. When Fen’Falon shrieked, Aemry grabbed the other mage’s feet and the two Wardens dragged the Inquisitor up to their room for the night. Fen’Falon only barely managed to escape the amorous pair before Zevran could pull some unnamed horror out of his backpack.


	4. Head Full of Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait y'all. Life and depression kinda took hold of me, but I'm back now. Might even have the next chapter up tomorrow, since I'm going to try and write more on this for NaNo.

The coast of the Waking Sea was almost stifling in its humidity. Fen’Falon was much more used to the level of humidity from the inland forests, but the sea’s moisture trapped amongst the tropical trees felt like it was choking her. She'd almost rather be back in Val Chevin, which they'd passed through yesterday.

Zevran and Aemry didn’t seem bothered by it, damn them, if their continued amorousness was any indicator. Fen’Falon muttered to herself about elves that couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, trying to talk away the bitter feelings that rose when she thought about how that could be her and Solas. Thankfully the two elves had enough restraint to keep from having sex while they were on the road with her - Fen’Falon was pretty sure that she would freeze them if she heard that sort of thing going on at their campsites.

Caught up in her thoughts of icy revenge and Solas, Fen’Falon didn’t hear Aemry calling to her for a good couple of minutes. Aemry finally resorted to using entropy magic to pull Fen’Falon into walking in place.

“You sure you don’t want to have a night with us, Ink?” the Warden asked with grin, coming around to stand in front of Fen’Falon. “Might loosen up whatever’s clogging your ears.”

“Huh?” Fen’Falon shook herself out of her thoughts. “Oh. Sorry, Aemry. The information from the broker said that the ruins should be just ahead here, some forty to fifty feet off the path.”

Aemry pointed into the foliage. “You mean something like that darker spot with a torch on the edge over there?”

Fen’Falon looked where Aemry indicated. Sure enough, barely visible through the ferns and leafy trees there was a cave, a single bright orange torch near one edge. Plants between their current position and the cave had indicators that others had made the trek over to the torch, with bent or broken branches and torn leaves that had captured stray threads from passing clothes.

“I guess that’s it,” Fen’Falon replied. “In any case, we’ll need to get closer in order to see if the information was right.”

“Allow me to go first,” Zevran said. The rogue unsheathed his dagger and longsword and set about clearing a better path to the ruins for the other two elves. Fen’Falon and Aemry followed close behind with Aemry keeping an eye out behind the group for any sign of treasure thieves.

Zevran paused just outside the cave entrance they had seen from the road. Even with the torch set into a hook on the cave mouth, the interior was too dark to see properly - they would have go inside to find anything interesting. The three elves looked at each, then Fen’Falon shrugged.

“May as well go in,” she said.

“After you, m’lady,” Zevran replied with a flourish and a bow.

Fen’Falon called on her magic to build a light, then winced as an answering pain came from the mark in her left hand. She walked into the cave and followed the path down for a few minutes, Zevran and Aemry close behind. The group stopped when they reached a part that was wider - crates and bedrolls indicated that some other group was scouting the ruins, and Fen’Falon spat in disgust when she noticed the insignia of the tainted templars that belonged to Corypheus.

“Red templars,” Fen’Falon said as she kicked one of the crates.

“Corypheus’s minions? What would they want with a place like this?” Aemry wondered out loud.

“They were likely on a mission here from the bastard and just decided to keep going when I turned him inside-out.”

“Colorful,” Zevran commented.

“In any event, this isn’t what we came for. We’ll just need to be on guard inside,” said Fen’Falon. The three elves walked under an arched entryway into the main part of the buried ruins.

By the magelight Fen’Falon had conjured, they could see that the hallway floors were covered in water - not enough to be an issue, really, but just enough to muddy the bottom of the space. They’d have to step carefully to avoid injury. Fen’Falon took point and ducked under another archway, taking care to keep her hands from touching the moss and ivy covered stones.

The new hallway was taller, and Fen’Falon felt like she could breathe properly. Tree roots from above had poked their way into the halls to be covered in mushrooms and moss, alcoves and side halls blocked by the fat roots. Straight ahead was a large statue of Fen’harel, carved into a lazy guard position that gave it a view of any intruders.

“Well that’s different,” Aemry commented.

“Not particularly,” Fen’Falon said. “There’s a decent number of larger ones like it in the Exalted Plains - we kept finding them in front of other ruins and temples. Even in the Temple of Mythal, in the Arbor Wilds. Still haven’t figured out what the deal is with them.”

“Interesting,” said Zevran. “Let’s hunt around then, shall we?”

The three split up to search the hallway that ran crosswise in front of the statue, turning up mostly junk aside from a Veilfire torch bracket near the statue. Underneath the torch was an elvhen plaque.

“We few whisper here where shadow dwells, some words remain unuttered. Truths are pushed down, down, where they shall never arise again,” Fen’Falon read off the plaque.

“Well isn’t that just cheery,” said Aemry with a nervous laugh.

“I think this was a temple to Dirthamen,” Fen’Falon said. “The markings at the bottom of that plaque look similar to my vallaslin.”

Zevran turned to look down the hallway on the left of the statue. “Is there a...light?...down there?”

Fen’Falon and Aemry turned to look as well.

“Looks like,” Fen’Falon said. All three made their way down the hall and passed through another archway. The room beyond looked similar to the burial chambers Fen’Falon had found in the Plains - a wide square room with arched alcoves set into the walls, their ceilings low, with small altars set up in the middles. This room in particular was nearly carpeted with moss, and there was even the occasional fern or ivy growing up from the stones as well. In the centermost alcove along the far wall, a humanoid bust held up a bowl filled with Veilfire.

Aemry touched the bowl, then pulled back with a stifled shriek.

“What happened?” Zevran asked.

“It..shocked me, or it felt like it did,” said Aemry. The fire in the bowl went out at the same the sounds of crumbling stone echoed in the room. The elves turned to face the source of the sounds and were met with shambling corpses.

“This should be easy,” Fen’Falon said, to keep the grin from splitting her face. She summoned her fadeblade and charged forward to slam the first corpse into the floor. Zevran charged with her and took a second corpse out in two quick swings of his sword and dagger, and Aemry has set a third and fourth on fire with a well-placed fireball.

Fen’Falon called on her rage and ice to freeze and then shatter her corpse into pieces, then hurried over to Aemry to run the burning corpses through before they could attack the other mage.

WIth all four corpses gone, the Veilfire in the bowl lit up again, revealing what appeared to be a severed head in front of the altar plinth. Zevran picked it up.

“It’s warm,” he said.

Fen’Falon gave a theatrical shudder. “That’s lovely. Let’s keep looking around, maybe we can figure out what that’s supposed to be for.”


	5. The Liar's Tongue

The head chamber cleared out, Fen’Falon led Zevran and Aemry back into the hallway.

“Forward it is,” the ex-Inquisitor declared. Fen’Falon held out a Veilfire torch in front of them. The rest of the hallway that ran along the statue of Fen’harel wasn’t long, and turned a corner that led deeper away from the main entrance. The vines and moss clustered more closely together in this section of the ruins, but the water level remained at ankle or calf height, which Fen’Falon was glad of. If there were more corpses, wading through hip or waist deep water would severely complicate the fight.

The trio passed through a hole that appeared to have been blasted through a wall and into a much wider hallway. Instead of plain stone walls, this hall carried more of the architecture that had characterised the Temple of Mythal, with delicate pointed arches and decorative supports.

Plant life was more prolific as well, likely revelling in the increased space. What seemed like entire tree trunks appeared more often, and grasses had joined the ferns in the war to crowd out the moss and mold.

Fen’Falon was surprised to see that some torch brackets had survived in their original places along the walls, and she used the Veilfire torch to light them rather than risk setting off the Anchor again. It throbbed in her hand and wrist, protesting the use of the fadeblade earlier.

A similar wide hallway branched out to the right, but Fen’Falon ignored that in favour of exploring further forward.

“We can always come back here, once we’re sure there aren’t any other undead surprises lurking around,” she told the others.

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Ink,” Aemry said.

They continued down the hallway and ducked carefully under water that poured down from an overhang to an arch - no one wanted the torch to go out. The arch led into another burial chamber, and again in the center alcove on the far wall there was a humanoid bust holding a bowl filled with Veilfire.

“Anyone up for a bet on this going the same as the last one?” Zevran asked.

“I don’t bet on sure things, pretty boy,” Fen’Falon said. “Aemry, would you do the honours?”

“Sure,” said the other mage. Aemry examined the statue carefully before touching the bowl. The Veilfire went out, stones crumbled, and a handful of walking corpses made their entrance.  Some spellfire later and Zevran was cleaning his blades while Fen’Falon took another look at the statue. As before, something new had appeared - this time a tongue.

“I’m starting to think Dirthamen’s priests weren’t nice people,” Fen’Falon commented.

“Or maybe they were driven to nastiness by some corrupting force? Like the magisters?” Aemry replied.

“Could be,” Fen’Falon said as she searched the other alcoves. Her search turned up another engraved tablet.

“More messages?” Zevran asked.

“Yeah,” said Fen’Falon. “Dirthamen is gone, he said. Our Highest One brings us this gravest news. What shall we do? Where shall we go? What of the old secrets that burn within our hearts?”

“I found another note over here,” Aemry called out. “This one looks more recent.”

Fen’Falon walked over to Aemry to take a look for herself. The parchment was filled with words, many of which were crossed out. Others were written in all capital letters, and some seemed to have been written so angrily they nearly punctured the page. Fen’Falon read out the only legible fragments.

“Reveal the heart, unite it with the flame, together they will form the key to...liberation? Advancement?”

“Odd,” Zevran said.

“It gets odder,” said Fen’Falon. “It says: The translation is not clear. I also do not think this brazier is the flame it speaks of.”

“A very odd note. I’d guess that some others have made it this far before,” Aemry said after a minute of silence.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the corpses we’ve fought were from these explorers,” Fen’Falon mused.

“Regardless, we should continue. This place has suddenly become a puzzle I’d like to solve,” said Zevran.

They made their way through the water and foliage back to the branch hallway. Immediately inside the new hall, statues of Andruil with her bow stood flush with the walls. Just past the statues, another hole had been blown into the wall on the left before the rest of the hallway continued down a set of stairs. The group followed the small rooms opened by force into further rooms, ending in a magical barrier across yet another hole.

Fen’Falon dispelled it quickly, only to be disappointed on seeing what was apparently a storage room. Zevran went to work searching all the containers, but no further clues to the mystery explorers made themselves known, so the elves went back to the main part of the new hallway to continue their own exploration.

The stairs ended in an archway to a balcony of sorts that looked out over an immense open room. The group had come in on the upper level, and the railing was crumbling in places. Fen’Falon thought this might have been the main room of the ancient temple. The roots in the space appeared to almost be trees themselves, and water dripped from the ceiling along ivy and vines.

“Left or right?” Fen’Falon asked.

“Left,” Zevran and Aemry said together. The pair looked at each other and giggled.

“You two do that a lot?”

“Yes,” Aemry said. “Sometimes we even finish each others’ sentences.”

Fen’Falon groaned - would the two elves never stop being nauseatingly cute together? Fen’Falon shoved that thought to the back of her mind; she couldn’t afford to let thoughts of Solas intrude here.

They followed the walkway around a corner to an archway with a torch bracket. Fen’Falon lit the torch, and again the trio ducked carefully under overflowing water into the space beyond. It was a long hall of crypts, Fen’Falon could see in the torch light. Water filled the lowest level of the walking area just past her ankles, and the mage was glad for her boots. The hallway led through a low arch deeper into catacombs, and the elves were greeted by another statue of a resting Fen’harel. They ducked through an arch into a third square room, with a humanoid bust holding a bowl of Veilfire.

A quick battle with soggy undead later, and Fen’Falon was carrying a pair of eyeballs that seemed to belong with the tongue and head the group had already collected. As they made their way through the crypts, Zevran found another tablet from the priests that had presided here.

“Our Highest One, he deceives us,” Zevran read. “The honeyed words that drip from his tongue we know the despair they mask. We disciples of Dirthamen know truth, now as ever.”

“What a pleasant bunch,” Aemry said. “Kinda makes me glad they’re gone.”

_Just like my vallaslin_ , Fen’Falon thought despondently. She didn’t regret the vallaslin’s removal, but the reminder of Solas was painful.

Deeper into the catacombs they found another chamber with a fourth bust holding Veilfire in a bowl. They repeated the sequence from before, beat down the shambling corpses and the surprise addition of an arcane horror, and collected the body part that appeared next to the statue - hands, this time.

“Is anyone else getting a not-nice feeling from these body parts?”

“Ink, I had a bad feeling when we picked up a gods-cursed _head_ ,” Aemry said.

Zevran led the two mages out of catacombs and back onto the walkway for a quick breather which turned into a midday meal. At least, Fen’Falon assumed it was midday. The occasional crack in the ceiling admitted light, but the quality made it hard to tell if it was daylight or moonlight peeking through. Bread and cheese were passed around from Zevran’s pack, and after waiting a bit to let the food settle, the trio were back on their feet and continued their exploration of the upper walkway.

They followed it around past a set of intact doors, which were magically sealed by some unknown means, and into two more burial chambers with Veilfire bowls and strange body parts - ears, and a heart, of all things. A third chamber was locked and required a key which they had yet to find.

Light from the cracks in the ceiling or roof had shifted as the day wore on, and now Fen’Falon could see a series of six plinths resting on a slightly raised area on the lower level. Stairs that led down from in front of the locked doors provided access to the lower level without the group needing to jump. Three plinths each stood in rows on either side of a larger statue on the raised platform, and Fen’Falon found more explorers’ notes resting there that described a lord of some kind who wanted the explorers to complete an elvhen ritual using the plinths. The note also detailed which body parts were intended for which plinth, and Fen’Falon wondered how the explorers had discovered that grisly correlation.

“Oh why not do it,” Zevran said, amusement in his voice. “It would certainly be more interesting than just leaving.”

“And maybe it will give me some of the answers I’ve been looking for,” said Fen’Falon. She was also privately hoping that activating something in ancient elvhen ruins would bring Solas’s attention, if not the infuriating mage himself.

Each of the elves had taken to carrying two of the body parts, and they carefully matched the parts to plinths. As they placed the parts, Veilfire glows rose from specific sections in the main floor that were underwater. An ancient elvhen orb, like the ones Fen’Falon and Solas had activated to strengthen the Veil, rose in the middle. When the final part was placed, a net of green fire pulsed around the elvhen orb.

Fen’Falon strode forward through the water to the orb and placed both hands upon it. The ground trembled, shaking loose a few stones from the ceiling, and Zevran and Aemry readied themselves for battle as the greenish glow of Fade-borne magic increased.


	6. Highest One

The elvhen orb flashed ethereal blue and ejected what appeared to be a wraith at first glance. Black rags hung from a skeletal form that floated above the water. The wraith vanished from in front of Fen’Falon with a popping sound, to reappear on the stairs leading to the upper level.

Fen’Falon spun her staff out and encased the wraith in a column of ice. Zevran took the moment to get close to the wraith and attacked with vigor, but did not shatter the wraith with his blows. Aemry cast a barrier spell around herself and Fen’Falon, and the two mages fell into step, casting spell after spell. One or the other would renew the barrier as the previous one fell, protecting themselves from the beams of bitter ice cast by the wraith.

“You want to use ice?” Fen’Falon muttered in the wraith’s direction. “Fine, let’s try playing with fire instead! Cover me, Aemry.”

“You got it, Ink.”

Fen’Falon hooked her staff across her back once again and began to draw on her power. She ignored the increasing pain generated by the Anchor, even though it made her left arm feel as though it was pierced by thousands of hot knives.

“Zevran!” Fen’Falon called out. “Get away from the wraith!”

Zevran backflipped off the stairs and ran towards Aemry. He reached his wife just in time, for Fen’Falon let her spell loose on the wraith, burying it in a storm of fire that rained down from above. The wraith’s rags caught flame, and soon it was too busy shrieking too send spells back towards the group.

Zevran took the opening to dismember the creature with his blades, and as the creature’s head rolled into the water on the floor, the green glows on the plinths vanished.

“I guess that was that ‘Highest One’ the notes mentioned,” said Fen’Falon.

“He wasn’t very happy to see us,” Zevran replied.

“Does it matter?” Aemry said tartly. “The doors at the top of the stairs have opened. Whoever tied those spells together was a genius. And a jerk. Let’s finish exploring then get out of here. I don’t want to spend the night in here with all those corpses just waiting to be reanimated.”

“Good point,” Fen’Falon said. She pushed the doors further open and led the others into the chamber beyond. 

The support columns had collapsed, with only two remaining to hold up the roof. Cracks and holes allowed light to spill into the room from above, leaving deep shadows along the edges of the room. Ancient braziers lay crumbled or crushed, and the back half of the chamber was in complete darkness.

Fen’Falon spied a glimmer of Veilfire in that darkness and moved forward to investigate it. As she approached, the Veilfire went out, and Fen’Falon conjured her own magelight to compensate. Where the Veilfire had been was a detailed mosaic, much like the ones from the Temple of Mythal, that depicted a stylised version of Dirthamen himself.

“Wow,” Aemry said, her voice breathy with awe.

“That must have cost a small fortune,” Zevran said.

Fen’Falon gave a shrug. “There’s one just like it in the Temple of Mythal. So-” Fen’Falon’s voice caught and she forced herself to continue, “Solas told me once that Mythal’s Temple, and I guess by extension this one, were built soon after the Fall. Before my people were scattered.”

“I wonder how much one of those gold tiles would go for…” Zevran said.

“Don’t you dare, you thief. Unless you don’t need your hands?”

“No need to get upset, Ink. I won’t touch your precious Dalish artefacts.”

Fen’Falon pursed her lips and cast a small spark at the assassin elf, ignoring the answering twinge from the Anchor. When Zevran reacted with a look of indignation, Fen’Falon smirked and shrugged.

“You know,” said Zevran as the trio made their way back to the entrance of the ruins, “I heard of a mage once who could do this thing with his hands while channeling shock magic into them.”

“Where was this?” Aemry said.

“I first heard the story in Amaranthine, and then again later in Kirkwall.”

“Oh really? And why am I only now hearing about this mage?”

“The first person who told me was a pirate queen who like threesomes, and--”

“You mean Isabela? From that whorehouse we had so much fun at in Denerim?”

“Mmm, good fun that was too. Regardless, she dropped anchor near Amaranthine because she’d heard the mage was there, but apparently he was out on some quest at the time, so she regaled me with stories instead. As I recall, you seemed to approve of some of the things Isabela mentioned to me…”

“Oh  _ that’s _ why we started playing with leather straps?”

Fen’Falon groaned. If her two companions were going to start talking about their sex lives again, it would only be minutes before they invited her to ‘play’ back at the camp.

“Just...tell the story, please, Zevran. I don’t need to know any more than I already do about what the pair of you get up to at night,” Fen’Falon said.

“Fine, fine,” replied Zevran. “To continue, a few years after the business in Amaranthine, I was hiding from some most persistent Crows in Kirkwall. To make the story short, Hawke showed up with both Isabela and Anders to save my very handsome ass. I caught up with Isabela, and she described the trick to me - turned out Anders was the mage!”

Zevran and Aemry shared a glance, then Zevran put an arm across Fen’Falon’s shoulders as they crossed out of the ruins and back into the forest.

“You seemed pretty handy with that spark earlier, Fen.”

“I know where you’re going with this, Zevran, and the answer’s no. The answer’s  _ always _ going to be no. So just stop with it already!” Fen’Falon brushed Zevran’s arm off her shoulders and stalked ahead of Zevran and Aemry, pointedly ignoring their apology and calls to slow her pace. Fen’Falon didn’t stop moving until she got to where they’d started only that morning, and sat herself on a large tree branch slightly away from the camp.

A few minutes later Aemry and Zevran walked into the camp - Fen’Falon continued to ignore them. 

“You know he doesn’t mean it, Fen’Falon,” Aemry said quietly as she sat beside the ex-Inquisitor.

Fen’Falon sighed. “I’m sorry too, for what that’s worth. I shouldn’t have snapped at your husband.”

“He’s always had trouble knowing where the lines are drawn, I’m afraid. Especially when there’s a pretty woman involved.”

Fen’Falon looked over at Aemry, startled. 

“Look, Fen, I don’t know who caused enough damage to make you like this, but…” Aemry smoothed her robes nervously. “We understand, in a way. The jokes are just Zevran’s way of trying to help you.”

“Well, he isn’t doing a very good job,” Fen’Falon snarked.

“I know, and he’ll try to stop being quite so obnoxious about it from now on. Forgive us?”

“Alright. But not even the Dread Wolf will be able to help either of you if it gets worse instead.”

“Sounds fair, my friend. I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Regardless, what say we drop through Val Royeaux on the way west?”

“Okay.”

Fen’Falon almost wished she could tell Aemry and Zevran why the subject was touchy for her, but last time she’d told someone, it was Solas, and that asshole had left her. Fen’Falon buried herself in her bedroll and grumbled herself to sleep.


	7. Civilization Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lookit that, another chapter! :) It's the beginning of NaNo, so I'm going to try and get a chapter up everyday *crosses fingers*

Val Royeaux had not changed much since Fen’Falon had first come to the Orlesian capital. Carefully kept ivies crawled up and down walls and the corners of buildings, complementing the bright colours painted on the exteriors. Tapestry-like banners hung between the lower buildings, and street sweepers were out clearing refuse and leaves from the paths. The market could be heard from streets away, and Fen’Falon could nearly swear that Aemry was vibrating with excitement.

“First, we must secure lodging,” Zevran exclaimed dramatically. “Then, my dearest Warden, we can go shopping.”

Aemry visibly deflated. “Oh fine, you spoilsport.”

Zevran did all the talking when they reached Le Masque du Lion near the Summer Market, securing them a pair of rooms at a fair enough price. After that, it was a simple matter of settling in, and ignoring the mounted dragon head on the wall of the entrance. Zevran and Aemry went out to the market, and Fen’Falon took the opportunity to sit at one of the outdoor tables of Le Masque and write in her mage’s journal - something she hadn’t done since before the Inquisition was officially founded.

Aemry came back hours later with food supplies and an armful of trinkets. Fen’Falon wasn’t sure if Zevran had bought anything himself until the assassin turned around and Fen’Falon could see he sported a new dagger in the sheath on his back.

Two weeks went by in Val Royeaux with the three elves exploring the city. Fen’Falon took the opportunity to roam the areas she hadn’t been able to visit previously. She was careful to avoid the White Spire, despite the rumours floating through the city about a new First Enchanter. As someone who intended to stay a free mage, the Circles were largely irrelevant to her in the wake of the Mage-Templar war.

The White Spire loomed over the city as Fen’Falon explored, and talk in the streets closest to it centered around the recently-ended Mage-Templar war and how glad the locals were that it hadn’t spread to Orlais. Fen’Falon snorted softly as she passed that conversation. The  _ shemlen _ here were spoiled by being away from Ferelden and the Free Cities.

As Fen’Falon made her way back to Le Masque, the rumours swirling around her changed.

“Did you hear that Count…” a lady giggled.

“Least they could do was clear out the false Templars…”

“My knife-eared servant ran off yesterday, ain’t seen a hair from her lazy head since…”

“Do you think something’s going on? Both of mine have gone missing too…”

“ _ I  _ heard that there were still some of the Elder One’s crazy priests out in the Wastes…”

Fen’Falon stopped and ducked into a nearby doorway to listen more closely.

“What would they want with the  _ Wastes _ of all place?”

The first man spoke again. “My son told me that his commander thinks that’s where the abomination’s followers vanished off to after the Herald killed their ‘god’. That they’re out there licking their wounds.”

“Of all the place to hide in the world, and they picked the Wastes? There must be something out there - surely not even the Venatori would run to place without purpose.”

“Whatever their reason is, I want nothing to do with it. Bad enough we’ve still got to look at the Scar in the sky.”

“Speaking of scars, did you hear about the new one old man Donatien gave miss Emelie’s boy for trying to filch Don’s boots last week?”

Fen’Falon moved away from the conversation as it turned to more mundane gossip. So the Venatori were regrouping in the Hissing Wastes. Fen’Falon remembered that the Inquisition had received a message about that before she left, but she hadn’t thought it worth doing anything over - like the gossips had surmised, as far as Fen’Falon know there wasn’t anything worth going to the Wastes for. The Venatori must have found something.

Despite her difference with the Inquisition, Fen’Falon had worked too hard to rid the world of Corypheus, been through too much pain and suffering, to allow his minions to resurrect the creature. She’d have to go into the Wastes - preferably with a patrol or platoon of soldiers, as the Venatori had never been easy to get rid of. If the Venatori were encamped in the Wastes, driving them out could take weeks.

“...and the woman said she was  _ Mythal _ , and then I swear the world was on fire but everything was green--” an elven voice was saying. Fen’Falon looked around to see who had spoken and saw a city elf talking to a human.

“Do you think I care? Is this your excuse for waking the whole household? A dream about a dead elven god?” The human motioned as if to backhand the elf, who cringed away.

“I--I’m sorry master. ‘Twon’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

Fen’Falon shook her head. It had to be coincidence - why would another elf be having a dream that nearly matched the one she had after Solas abandoned her? It was much more likely that the elf had too much to drink the night before and had a bizarre nightmare.

Fen’Falon was nearly back to Le Masque, and looked forward to sitting quietly at corner table with a hot meal while she waited for Aemry and Zevran to return.

 

* * *

 

“He asked for an update yesterday,” Zevran said, his voice coming from somewhere above Fen’Falon as she slowly awakened.

“It has only been three weeks since we arrived in the city, there isn’t much that’s new to tell,” Aemry replied.

Fen’Falon rolled onto her side, trying to ignore the voices from the room next door.

“It would be so much easier if he would just visit himself, Aemry. Why go through all the trouble to distance from her, only to ask us to keep an eye out?”

“Even in stories his mind was considered strange. It’s getting late in the morning, though. We should wake her up.”

The voices moved away from the wall, and Fen’Falon heard the faint sound of a door closing followed by footsteps. A polite knock sounded at the door to her own room. Fen’Falon groaned and rolled herself out of the bed to answer the door.

“Yes?” She opened the door just enough for her body to block any attempt at entrance.

“Morning, Fen!" Aemry chirped. “We’ll be at an outdoor table whenever you’re ready - we were thinking about your proposal to venture into the Hissing Wastes.”

Fen’Falon blinked a few times in rapid succession. “Alright. See you soon,” she said as she shut the door. Fen’Falon went through the now-routine motions of pulling on armour padding followed by the elven chainmail under-armour, then the chest plate and accessories. Once everything was settled into place, the elven mage was ready to meet her friends, the snippets of overheard conversation already slipping from her mind.

Downstairs, the three elves were halfway through their morning tea when the sounds of many booted feet sifted into the seating area of Le Masque. All three shared a worried glance as the sounds neared the inn. In the street in front, a solitary figure stopped and pointed its arm in the direct of the elves. Sunlight flashed off something pinned near the shoulder of the figure - an Inquisition badge! Fen’Falon’s eyes widened with panic.

“We have to go,” Fen’Falon whispered to her companions.

“What, now?” Zevran asked.

“Yes, now. Those guards we just heard are coming for me! No time to explain, just help me grab our supplies and packs and run.”

Zevran’s mouth closed, the question that had been on his lips stifled as the first guard came into view. He tugged Aemry up and out of her seat and gestured for Fen’Falon to take the lead. They moved deliberately to the stairs in the back, all of them aware that running would only draw the attention they were trying to avoid. Once out of sight of the Inquisition agent and guards, they broke into a sprint for their rooms. Packing was haphazard at best, but once supplies and personal effects had been stowed in their packs, all three elves were together in the hallway. The guards could be heard questioning patrons downstairs.

“Is this a leave-the-city sort of emergency?” Zevran asked with his usual humorous lilt.

Fen’Falon nodded. “Absolutely. Please tell me you know a way to leave without getting caught.”

Zevran placed a hand over his heart. “Moi? Madam, I’ll have you know that I’m aware of at least  _ three _ ways to leave without seeing a single soul.”

Aemry pinched Zevran’s ass. “Then get leading, O handsome rogue!”

Fen’Falon rolled her eyes as she followed Zevran to shimmy down a drain pipe on the outside of the building. Using back alleys to take them all away from the Summer market, Zevran soon had the little group arriving at a private dock, well away from the public ones.

“A friend here owed me a favour - I’ll just leave him a note so he knows where to find his boat,” Zevran explained as he wrote on a scrap of paper.

Fen’Falon shifted nervously from one foot to another, impatient to be away. Zevran tacked the note to a nearby post with a thin dagger pulled from one of his boots as Aemry chivvied Fen’Falon into the boat. In minutes, they had cast off from the dock and were away from Val Royeaux, their vacation into civilization cut short.


	8. Pride

Solas - no, Fen’harel, it was important to own the name once more - slipped from the Fade into wakefulness and mentally catalogued the reports from his agents. Key players were migrating towards his hidden refuge after receiving careful instructions for moving through the Eluvians and Crossroads to reach it. His mountain refuge was secure, nestled as it was in a glacial lake near the Tirashan and Hunterhorn Mountains, to use their modern names.

Reports from within the Inquisition indicated the so-called Advisors to the Inquisitor seemed concerned, but any rumours were ruthlessly quashed. From the Free Cities, word of increasing tensions between elves and  _ shemlen _ . Val Royeaux agents couched their reports in flowery language, but amounted to next-to-nothing beyond recruiting and the latest amendments and decrees being pushed through by Briala.

Requests to his agents in Ferelden to check up on the orbs holding the Veil steady - he’d need to pull power from them in order to tear his creation down once more. A pair of agents were tasked with watching over his  _ vhenan _ , since he could not be with her himself, not at this stage in his plans. Solas would need her later, to use the Anchor for its original purpose, and rationalised to himself that this was the reason for the spying.

He’d always been good at lying, after all. To himself, Solas maintained his carefully constructed fiction that distancing himself from the Inquisitor had been the right call. After all, she was barely of the People to begin with, and not even all the elvhen magic in the world could make her into something she was not.

The look on her face when he left her in the cave in Crestwood - brows drawn close in anger, teeth pulling on her lower lip in despair, eyes flashing gold in reflected moonlight despite gathering tears - briefly cross his mind’s eye for the third time that morning. Fen’harel frowned and pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Dwelling on what had to be done could not change what needed to be done.

Fen’harel reached back into a meditative state, hoping to make contact with his agents in Qun-controlled lands. The leashing of mages under the Qun had led to a strange mirror of the world in Fade, with many areas depicting chains, tall cliffs, or even mires. Some Saarebas dreamt of freedom, and these dreams were filled with fanciful imaginations of what the lands outside Par Vollen looked like. The dreams of those who had been in Kirkwall before the Mage-Templar war spent much time on killing Bas Saarebas, or leashing them in turn. Fen’harel stayed wary as he loped through these dreams in his wolf form, as even a leashed mage could do him harm if their will was strong enough.

He found the dreams of a Qunari elf with the help of a spirit of cunning and shifted back into his natural elvhen state. His agent here wore the face paint of the Qunari, a rare honour granted to the young man on achieving status among the Ben-Hassrath.

“ _ Ar-melana dirthavaren _ ,” Fen’harel greeted the young Qunari elf.

“ _ Revas vir-anaris, _ ” he replied. “There’s been stirrings among the Dangerous Action Qunari, Fen’harel.”

“More than were stirred when Corypheus first opened the Breach?”

“Yes. Plans are moving forward. I’m not high-ranked enough to be told what the targets are, but only an idiot would fail to notice the movement of Qunari explosives. And some of the newer agents-in-training under the Qun are being sent on missions.”

“Troubling news, but only if they get in our way. Keep me informed, if you will. I will see to our People.”

The Qunari elf bowed and Fen’harel allowed himself to fade out of the young man’s dreamscape. When he felt he had gained enough distance from the physical Qunari lands, Fen’harel shifted once more into his wolf form, white fur streaming as he loped through the Fade. Distance here meant next to nothing, but it felt good to treat the Fade as if it were already re-merged with the waking world.

In a few months, Fen’harel knew that he would have restored enough of his power to move to the next phase of his plans. As if his thoughts summoned it, Fen’harel felt the fading of an old spirit some distance away. A thought brought him to the source.

The area was densely wooded, but flickering between the trees was a fragment of an old elvhen temple to one of his power-mad brethren. Dirthamen, if he was reading the signs correctly. Fen’harel focused on the ruins to bring them into solidity so that he could explore further. The temple did not appear to be as old as Mythal’s in the Arbor Wilds, but it was constructed in the same era, after the Fall. After his splitting of the world.

The temple itself had nearly vanished from the Fade, with none to remember its passages and purpose, but had recently been visited, if the reappearance of the catacomb levels was any indication. Catacomb alcoves lay undisturbed, suggesting that the recent visitors had been elves themselves - quicklings would likely have desecrated and vandalised what little remained of the People in the world.

The memories of those who had visited showed him fights with reanimated dead, likely the work of long-lasting enchantments on the tombs. Further in lay the main gathering space of the temple, covered in vines and encroached on by tree roots and ferns. Fen’harel watched as three ghostly figures drew together to fight a wraith-like creature, two of them mages. One of the mages was clearly paired up with the dagger-wielding rogue, evidenced in the way the two elves protected each other unthinkingly.

The second mage felt familiar, the movements and twirls of her staff sparking memories of Fen’harel’s own. She turned, and Fen’harel saw it was Fen’Falon, his  _ da’harellan _ , his  _ vhenan _ . For all that it was not even a sighting in the flesh, Fen’harel was still affected. His breath caught to see her unmarked face, her determined countenance morphing into one of joy and excitement as the wraith was banished. The flair of power from the wraith’s defeat matched the one that had originally brought him to the temple’s Fade half. 

Fen’harel waited for a while - time was mutable to one of his power, in the Fade - then focused on the ‘feel’ of his agent monitoring the Inquisitor. Using that as a guide, the ancient elvhen mage transported himself to the agent, surprised to see the current location was Val Royeaux. One of the first times he had realised that Fen’Falon was more than the Dalish elf she appeared to be.

His agent was handsome, for a quickling elf, or so the agent assured Fen’harel on multiple occasions. Tanned skin gave way to sun-bleached blonde hair that framed the elf’s face, marred only by a human-style tattoo along one cheekbone.

Fen’harel clasped his hands behind his back and waited for the agent to speak first.

“She’s doing better I think,” the agent said, finally.

“I noticed you found Dirthamen’s Temple,” Fen’harel countered.

The elf had the grace to look sheepish. “Ah, yeah, the Inquisitor found rumours back in Kirkwall and decided to follow them. We were really just along for the ride.”

Fen’harel chuckled - he remembered well how Fen’Falon could be stubborn when she wanted something done.

“How do things stand currently?” Fen’harel asked the agent.

“We’re in Val Royeaux, about to head out to the Hissing Wastes to investigate reports of the Venatori.”

Fen’harel made a shooing motion with his hands to dismiss the agent. Perhaps he would drop back into the physical world to check on his  _ vhenan _ soon. Just to see for himself, so that his mind would not be further distracted as his plans progressed.


	9. Wasted Away

Calling it a boat, Fen’Falon decided, was entirely too generous. It was barely larger than a canoe, and a tight fit even for three elves with their packs. With Zevran doing most of the work to trim sail and maneuver with the oars, though, they made good time away from Val Royeaux. They reached a small fishing village a little over a day later and left the boat with yet another contact of Zevran’s. Fen’Falon was beginning to understand why the Crows were so effective - it seemed like they knew  _ everyone _ . 

The fishing village was a small collection of fifteen or so stone houses with thatched roofs. Dirt roads marked the main thoroughfare out of the village towards the Imperial Highway and Val Foret, and the trio of elves passed through the village without further interaction with the villagers.

Once out of the village, Zevran took them on a path that led west, away from Val Foret and Val Royeaux, and towards the Hissing Wastes. They camped in a small grove of trees, almost large enough to be a forest in its own right, that night and Fen’Falon felt a sudden wave of homesickness as Aemry helped her set up the camp while Zevran hunted down a rabbit or two. Fen’Falon thought it was very similar to how her life was before the Breach - simple living on the move with her Dalish kin and clan.

Fen’Falon choked down her tears and anger at the loss of her clan and left the camp to be alone in the trees. Safely away from the outsider elves, Fen’Falon allowed her composure to drop, Her sadness turned to anger at herself, for allowing the Inquisition to override her wishes with regards to Clan Lavellan, for not being strong enough to help, for still mourning the loss of people who had barely cared for her. Rime formed on the ferns nearest her hiding spot and Fen’Falon reined her temper in with a major effort of will.

A flicker of white at the edge of her vision put Fen’Falon on alert, even as it vanished deeper into the trees. The mage scrambled to follow - it had looked too big to be a rabbit, and camp wouldn’t be safe if there was a wolf pack nearby. She didn’t have time to grab her mage staff, which meant she’d have to make do without a magical focus and only her emergency dagger for close-range fighting, if it came to take. Fen’Falon reached for the sheath at her back and loosened the dagger, just in case.

Fen’Falon found a print in wet earth that belonged to a wolf, and increased her pace, following the trail almost to the edge of the dense part of the grove. Just beyond her, a mere thirty feet away, a white wolf sat looking for all the world like a tame mabari. The wolf tilted its head, and Fen’Falon thought that the wolf’s blue eyes were glowing. She shook her head and the thought passed. Still, the wolf was familiar.

“Are you…” Fen’Falon spoke before she could think herself out of talking to a dumb animal. “Are you the same wolf from Tarasyl’an Te’las?”

The wolf tilted its head in the other direction, then let its tongue loll out of its mouth. Fen’Falon decided this was a very strange wolf.

“Well, if you are you can’t be here. My friends might kill you on sight - they are wolf-friends as I am.”

The wolf brushed its tail against the ground briefly, almost as if it could understand her.

“Go on, shoo!” Fen’Falon feinted an attack towards the wolf, but it didn’t move. It blinked blue eyes, and for a moment Fen’Falon saw six eyes, each glowing in the dusk. The wolf stood and trotted towards a smaller group of trees while Fen’Falon was stunned, and vanished into the shadows.

With the wolf gone, Fen’Falon collapsed to her knees in the thin mast of the trees. Leaves crunched under her legs and the elven mage let out a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding.

“ _ Fenedhis _ ,” she cursed. “And Creators help me.” Fen’Falon put her shaking left hand in between her thigh and calf and sat on it, stilling the shakes temporarily. She had to be hallucinating. Or having a Fade dream. The white wolf  _ couldn’t _ be who she thought it was. 

When the sun finished setting completely, and only darkness remained under the trees, Fen’Falon managed to bury the shock enough to make her way back to camp.

“Are you okay, Ink?” Aemry asked.

Fen’Falon stammered out something that sounded like an affirmative. “Why?”

“You look a little...pale.”

Zevran looked up from tending the campfire and arched an eyebrow at his wife. “She always looks pale, my love, not everyone can be golden sun gods like ourselves.”

Aemry swatted Zevran half-heartedly. “Pale for Fen’Falon, then.”

“I’m fine,” Fen’Falon said. Thankfully, the other two elves dropped the subject.

* * *

A week and half to the Western Approach and the Hissing Wastes; most of a week where the temperature got hotter in the day, frigid at night, and the villages got farther and farther away. As temperatures became less bearable during the day, the trio gradually moved to a more nocturnal schedule, only travelling in the evenings and stopping before nighttime air could freeze their skin.

More ominously, huge spikes of red lyrium began appearing as they forged their way deeper into the desert sands of the Wastes. The hum set Fen’Falon’s teeth on edge each time the elves passed a cluster, and soon even Zevran and Aemry tried to skirt the formations as much as possible.

Even so, it wasn’t long before they ran into a group of four Venatori. One wore black robes with a pointed hood pulled up over his head, the rest of the robes wrapping around bits of armour. The other three were clearly fighters of some kind - one wore blackened leather armour and carried two blades like Zevran, and the other two wore blackened plate armour and carried longswords.

Against two mages and a fighter of Zevran’s skills however, the fight was thankfully short once Aemry electrocuted all four Venatori at once. It’s shockingly hard to fight when limbs are twitching out of control.

Zevran dispatched the mage and a fighter with quick, clean slices that parted heads from necks. Aemry accounted for another by stabbing him in the face with the bladed end of her staff, and Fen’Falon burned the last one into a toasty crisp with well-placed fire spell.

Once the remains had been sufficiently buried, the trio made their way deeper into the Wastes, avoiding any distant campfires they saw. Aemry stopped the group in the shadow of a rocky mesa as the moon started to set.

“We should camp here for the rest of the night and day,” the former Warden Commander said.

“As you say, my goddess,” Zevran said.

“Please don’t start again you two,” whined Fen’Falon.

“Spoilsport,” Zevran said with a laugh. Conversation ceased as the three set up their camping gear, careful to ensure that any signs of people were hidden from view. No one wanted to be ambushed by the Venatori, or worse, rogue Red Templars, in their sleep.

They woke as the temperatures soared in the afternoon, and Fen’Falon and Aemry worked together with ice spells to keep all three elves from overheating. Every spell, every expenditure of mana made Fen’Falon wince. The Inquisitor said nothing to her companions of the pain of the Anchor, but Aemry and Zevran were growing concerned about the very obvious hurting their friend was doing.

When evening finally arrived, and with it more tolerable temperatures, the three elves packed up their camp and continued their journey into the depths of the Wastes.


	10. Wasted Sorrows

By the third day in the Wastes, it was apparent that the Venatori were truly entrenched in the scrubland. The oases and other water sources were camped upon by the disenfranchised followers of Corypheus, as were most of the caves wrought into the mesas and cliffs in the area.

“We’re going to have to get rid of them all, at this rate,” Aemry complained once Zevran had killed the last of another encampment.

“Or at least until we know what they’re after out here,” Fen’Falon pointed out.

“I think I can assist with that,” said Zevran as he pulled a piece of parchment out of his foe’s pouches. The two elven mages crowded close to Zevran to read the note he’d found.

“ _ I have just discovered Fairel's tomb in the east. I've never seen something so sodding grand in all my life. I won't write an essay on this place, I'll write a book. Several books. I will be rich and bring a whole expedition here and the University of Orlais will beg me to lecture when I'm not presenting my findings to the empress herself over dinner. _

“ _ That is, if I can get inside the Fairel's tomb. The doors are sealed tight. It looks like there's a keyhole, but none of the ruins I've seen have anything even hinting at a key. On the way out, I saw I'd missed a few bones on the ground. They were still bloody. Sheer luck that whatever lives there wasn't home when I arrived. _ ”* Zevran arched an eyebrow at Aemry as he finished reading the passage.

“Well, I guess that clears things up,” Fen’Falon said. “They’re trying to get into that tomb, wherever it is.”

“Deeper into the Wastes it is then,” Aemry replied.

One week and two days later the three elves had cleared more Venatori camps, thankfully sans Red Templars, and collected more of the mystery person’s journal entries. The Venatori were definitely after the tomb, and whatever was rumoured to be sealed within. As far as Fen’Falon was concerned, that was enough to ruin the Venatori plans - if they wanted something, they were likely planning to use it to finish Corypheus’s work or some other such nonsense.

The three had also explored their way through five ancient dwarven catacombs, clearing the resident Venatori each time. At each tomb or dig site, the elves ransacked the Venatori camps, taking what they could carry and either destroying or burying the rest to prevent Corypheus’s lackeys from continuing.

That night before turning in for the morning they gathered together to go over their haul. 

“We’ve been there already,” said Fen’Falon and pointed to a picture of a dwarven colossus above rectangular stones. Aemry set it aside in the growing pile of ‘no longer relevant’ information.

“Here’s another piece of our mystery dwarf’s journal,” said Zevran.

“Anything new?” replied Aemry.

“No, this must be an early page, before he found a tomb.”

“Useless, then.” Aemry pointed to the pile for irrelevant pieces of junk. All three continued sorting for long minutes in silence, then:

“I don’t think we’ve been here yet,” Fen’Falon said. In her hands was a picture of a valley with tall columns marking a road up to a cave guarded by three colossi.

“We’ll start looking for that tomorrow, then,” Aemry said decisively.

 

* * *

 

The next day proved to be the hottest one in the Wastes the elves had yet experienced. Even in the cave they were currently holed up in, the heat was enough to wake all three at roughly midafternoon. Despite Aemry and Fen’Falon’s best efforts, all three were soon sweating profusely.

Fen’Falon cast a small ice spell to generate water for the three elves, which they drank carefully but gratefully.

“ _ Fenedhis! _ ” Fen’Falon cursed as the Anchor flared in her palm, in response to the spellcasting. The fingers of her left hand curled inwards and refused to uncurl, and soon Fen’Falon’s wrist bent in towards her chest as well. A chill rippled across her skin and Fen’Falon suddenly felt cold, then fevered. Her body curled inwards protectively around her left hand while the world around her faded away.

“Fen!” she heard as if from a great distance. “Fen don’t you dare!”

The world went black.

Greenish-gold light faded in and she could see golden limestone walls towering above her. The walls gave way to a courtyard, covered in vines and dotted here and there with bushes and flowering plants. Growing up the walls were large marsh trees, their stringy roots gripping anywhere they could find purchase. Her boots rang out across the cobbled paths, echoing in the empty halls.

She jumped lightly over a fissure in the path and continued down stairs that turned inwards. Finally she stopped before large double doors, ancient wood and metal wrought into designs that recollected a better time. A better place. A better world. Nostalgia washed over her even as her sense of purpose deepened.

The doors opened to a darkened entryway, but even without light she could see here. Stairs to the right led down towards a water source that burbled quietly. Light filtered in as she descended to the spring.

Abelas stood on top of the ledge that once housed the Vir’abelasan, waiting for her. The ancient elvhen guardian looked out-of-sorts, uncertain in the face of the future that was planned.

The stone steps rose at her command and she ascended to meet Abelas at the ancient Well. The two spoke, though the precise meaning of the words escaped Fen’Falon for some reason, and then she approached the cracked mirror that lay against the cavern wall. She closed her eyes for a moment, then summoned her power.

Under her direction, her power repaired the eluvian to its full glory. With a word and a gesture, the eluvian became active once again, and she stepped through into the rippling surface.

The ripples emanated beyond the eluvian’s frame until the whole world seemed to warp to her vision.

Fen’Falon woke in her tent to the worried face of Aemry staring down at her.

“I have to go to Mythal’s Temple,” Fen’Falon gasped out.

“You have to rest, Quiz,” Aemry said. The Warden held Fen’Falon against the bedroll, discouraging any movement from the weakened mage. Fen’Falon struggled briefly, then gave in.

“Fine.”

“Besides, we still have a campsite to hunt down, remember?”

Fen’Falon grimaced.

“Fen, what was that? Why did you collapse?”

“I collapsed?  _ Fenedhis _ .” Fen’Falon shook her head to clear the strange dream she had from it. “The mark - the Anchor. It doesn’t like it when I cast. After I killed Corypheus, it’s been getting worse. I can’t - the Inquisition doesn’t,  _ can’t _ , know.”

Aemry ran fingers through Fen’Falon’s hair. “Don’t worry, kid. I certainly won’t tell them. The Inquisition is no business of mine, nor Zevran’s, except where it saved the world. Which we appreciate, in case we haven’t told you that yet.”

“My love,” Zevran poked his head into the tent with a grin. “If we are to take the camp, we must go now.”

“Fen, you up for a fight?”

“Gods, please yes,” Fen’Falon replied. "Anything but resting."

“Zevran, could you grab my stash of lyrium for Fen? I have a feeling she’ll need it.”

Their camping spot was dismantled and packed away, save for a large double handful of lyrium vials that Fen’Falon stored safely away in some belt pouches, and the three wove their way along the cliffs along the south edge of the Wastes in search of the final Venatori location.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Text pulled from in-game Codex, “A Journal on Dwarven Ruins”.


	11. Howling Sands

The trio of elves made their way along the ridge the marked the beginnings of the crossover from the Wastes into the Western Approach. Eventually the stumbled across a well-traveled cavern through the ridge, light barely visible on the other end.

“Allow me,” Zevran said with a mocking bow. Aemry giggled, and Fen’Falon huffed at the pair of lovebird elves.

“Can we please focus?” Fen’Falon griped. The other two elves looked at each other before leading the way out of the cavern.

The path opened into a caldera with high cliffs behind the path and a large misshapen hill across the bowl. Dwarven-wrought columns lined the left-most edge of the cliff, marking an ancient road for the adventurers to follow. The elves passed between the columns and the cliff, and an overhang provided welcome relief from the desert sun. 

The bowl of the caldera was filled with mist that even the sun seemed unable to burn out, lending an air of mystery and something that vaguely unsettled Fen’Falon. As the path wound around the edge of the bowl, Fen’Falon could see that what she had first taken for a hill on the other side was actually a building of sorts, flanked by two enormous dwarven statues.

A sound like a breath cleared a chunk of the mist from the middle of the bowl. 

“Mmmph!” Fen’Falon gasped into the hand that had suddenly appeared over her mouth.

“Be calm, Ink,” Zevran said quietly from behind her.

Fen’Falon made more muffled noise against the offending hand.

“We do not want to wake that,” the ex-Crow reminded Fen’Falon as he pulled his hand away. Fen’Falon nodded frantic agreement. The dragon that slept in the middle of the bowl was bigger than Mythal’s dragon had been during the fight against Corypheus. 

Zevran took the lead towards the dwarven building and all three elves made extra effort to keep their steps light and their packs from making sound.

Of course, as luck would have it, all the sneaking around turned to naught when Venatori emerged from the entrance to the dwarven ruin.Two mages, a scout, and two men in plate armour clanked and clambered out from the ruin, and the noise echoed through the caldera ominously. 

Zevran pulled Aemry and Fen’Falon behind one of the many dwarven statues, and all three began to hope that the dragon and the Venatori would ignore the elves.

A snort of warm air blew the rest of the mist out of the bowl to dissipate in the sun. The Venatori froze, but they were much too late for that to be effective. A second huff signalled the dragon’s awakening and powerful wings pulled the dragon into the air as it hunted for the intruders.

When the dragon spotted the Venatori - easy enough, since the Venatori had a liking for bright reds in their uniforms - it roared its fury at them and a handful of dragonlings emerged from behind large rocks in the bowl as the dragon landed. The Venatori were momentarily stunned by the roar, and made easy targets for the dragonlings to pursue.

After a few moments the Venatori returned to themselves and readied for battle. Fen’Falon studied them in case they prevailed over the dragon. Both the mages preferred fire spells, or perhaps that was the stored element of their staves. The plate-armoured warriors both carried large two-handed swords and fended the dragonlings away from the mages as much as possible. The scout, with his light shortsword and a bow strapped to his back, seemed to be trying to either find a way to run away from the dragon brood, or hide until his comrades had finished the fight.

The dragon leapt up again to the top of a column and breathed fire down on the Venatori. The heat of the fire reached the column Fen’Falon, Aemry, and Zevran had hidden themselves behind and brought out sweat on Fen’Falon’s forehead. With no shields among them, the Venatori scattered to avoid the dragonfire. One of the warriors didn’t make it out of range and was set aflame.

His screams drew more dragonlings, who gleefully devoured the warrior and crept off with body parts for later eating. The remaining Venatori started throwing spells at the dragon and dragonlings, with little effect. The large dragon barely notice the fireballs flung by the mages, and retaliated with tail swipes and more fire breath.

A flurry of hand motions between Zevran and Aemry appeared to work out a plan for getting the three of them out of the battle, although Fen’Falon wasn’t completely sure what that plan was. She followed Aemry and copied the other mage’s movements as they followed Zevran back the way they had come in, hoping to avoid notice by the Venatori or the dragon.

As the trio made their way under the overhang, Fen’Falon jostled a loose rock and accidentally set off a cascade of pebbles. The noise echoed oddly in comparison to the sounds of battle, and the dragon’s head swiveled to look for the source.

“ _ Fenedhis _ !” Fen’Falon whispered. 

“No time for that, my friend - run!” Zevran said in reply. They all ran for the exit as quickly as possible. The dragon breathed fire at the columns lining the path, setting the brush on fire but thankfully missing the group. Fen’Falon threw ice behind them, hoping the cold would hold the dragon back briefly.

The Venatori who noticed the dragon’s distraction took advantage to fling their own spells at the beast and drew its notice long enough for the three elves to make it through the other side of the entrance to the caldera.

The elves didn’t stop there, however, and kept running towards the edge of the Hissing Wastes. All three knew that the more distance between them and the dragon’s home, the less likely it would be to find them in the night.

“Alright,” Aemry gasped, “I think we’re far enough away. Right, Zevran?”

“It’s been awhile since we got this close to a dragon, but I think so, my dear.”

“Dread Wolf take those blasted Venatori,” Fen’Falon said.

They walked for a few more hours until they came to a small brush area with trees. A few spells and clanging swords drove the more skittish creatures out, and the Zevran unpacked the tents to set up camp for the night.

 

* * *

 

Morning dawned with the heat that had become characteristic of the Wastes. Fen’Falon had a hard time sleeping in the night because of the noise made by Zevran and Aemry’s celebration of evading the dragon, but eventually the ex-Inquisitor was able to block out the sounds from the other tent.

Aemry and Zevran were only minutes behind Fen’Falon in waking up, so all three were able to sit near their tents and have a quick breakfast while they discussed their next steps.

“With any luck,” said Zevran, “that dragon ate the Venatori.”

“Here’s to hoping, lover boy,” Aemry said.

“So what’s next?” Fen’Falon asked. They’d all but finished what they had come to the Wastes to do, and even that had been a rather hefty detour for the other two elves. If Fen’Falon was remembering correctly, the pair had been intending to go north to Tevinter.

Aemry and Zevran shared a glance before Aemry looked back over at Fen’Falon. 

“What were your plans, Ink?” she asked.

Fen’Falon remembered the dream she had while passed out a few days ago.

“I need to go to the Arbor Wilds,” she decided. “I think I can find Solas there.”

“Then this is where we part,” Zevran said, sounding almost sad.

“To Tevinter, right?” Fen’Falon asked.

“Yes. We’ve been asked to look into some concerning rumours floating around there, and the Qunari are apparently up to something as well,” Aemry replied.

“Well, it was nice having you two around for this,” Fen’Falon said politely. She was going to miss having backup of their caliber, that was for certain. “I guess we’ll just pack up and go, then.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan. Before the sun bakes me out of my armour,” Zevran said. Aemry faked a over-exaggerated leer at her husband, to which Zevran laughed.

The camp was packed up quickly in companionable silence, and before long it was time to go their separate ways.

“Don’t forget me?” Fen’Falon asked.

“Of course not, you’re much too cute to be forgetting!” Aemry laughed and waved as Fen’Falon blushed. 

Fen’Falon sighed. She had a lot of walking to do very quickly to catch up to Solas’s trail, assuming he’d even left one after entering the eluvian in the Temple.


	12. Misplaced Mythal

Fen’Falon travelled a path out of the Wastes that followed the way the three elves had taken in as much as possible. With one major exception - Fen’Falon did her best to avoid any semblance of civilization. She did not want a repeat of Val Royeaux, and certainly had no intention of being dragged back to the Inquisition.

This path took the young mage back towards the fishing village near Lake Celestine, and Fen’Falon was able to follow the Orlesian road system to speed up her travel time. She took the road towards the Exalted Plains, then branched out to the south for the Arbor Wilds.

Each night, Fen’Falon dreamt of the fight against Samson in the Temple of Mythal, followed by a repeat of the dream or vision of Solas speaking with Abelas at the Vir Abelasan. As Fen’Falon drew nearer the Wilds, the repetitive dreaming leant her a sense of urgency, as if she might get to the Temple too late to catch up with Solas. The Dalish mage picked up her pace from a natural, easy walk to a punishing soldier’s march, pushing herself from sunup to sundown and eating only when she stopped for the night.

She made good time through the Plains and the shallow end of the Wilds, but as she got deeper in, it became harder to keep the pace up. For safety’s sake, Fen’Falon slowed back down to a more normal pace, and found herself sleeping well past sunup for the first week she was in the Wilds.

Fen’Falon followed familiar paths that she had never travelled, the Well providing her with directions subconsciously. Thick-trunked trees with equally thick foliage filtered light down into the forest floor, lending a warm greenish cast to the world that reminded Fen’Falon of her younger days wandering the Free Marches with her clan. She wended her way westward through the trees for a few days, then turned south again.

The Arbor Wilds were quiet this deep, with only the chittering of birds. Fen’Falon camped near a river that she remembered from the time the Inquisition had come out to the Temple in force, which was only one or two days north of the Temple of Mythal.

On the morning of the second day after she reached the river, Fen’Falon was thoroughly confused. It should have been a straight shot south of the river to the Temple, and yet the area of the forest was as dense as the rest, with no Temple in sight. Fen’Falon made camp in the new spot and meditated for the rest of the afternoon, trying to recall everything she could about the previous approach to the Temple.

As far as she could remember, this was the spot. The Well of Sorrows in her mind was quiet, though Fen’Falon barely noticed in her single-minded hunt for the entrance to the Temple. With nothing to provide clues in her new campsite, Fen’Falon instead went directly east for half a day before returning. 

To the east was more forest, of course, and a small clearing that had initially given Fen’Falon hope before the bear family that claimed it as home appeared. One bear was bad enough, but the mage knew better than to tangle with a mother and cubs without backup.

The western half was still the Wilds, and as it thinned out Fen’Falon could tell that eventually that area would merge with the Emerald Graves. As with the eastern search, there was no sign of the Temple, nor even the river and waterfall that had marked the approach to it.

Frustrated, Fen’Falon vented on the flora near her campsite with frost and ice. Icicles hung from the lower branches of the trees, frost rimed the ferns and flowers, and eventually Fen’Falon tired herself out. With the campsite now edging on freezing temperatures, Fen’Falon moved herself back to the river, this time with the intention of following it downstream.

Fen’Falon took the river downstream for a full day, but was suprised to see a single tent set up in the small clearing already. 

“Hello?” Fen’Falon called out. She hoped the other person was at the camp - if she waited for them to return it could be a while.

Something rustled inside the tent before the front of it opened to reveal someone tall. A bit of winding black fabric covered the person’s shoulders and draped over their head like a hood, hiding distinguishing features. Tevinter-style robes in black and a deep wine covered the rest of them, accented by grayish fur and gold metal torqs. 

“ _ Andaran atishan _ , stranger,” the person replied. Their voice marked them as male, though it was much deeper than elves usually sounded.

“ _ Aneth ara _ ,” Fen’Falon replied. “Why are you so deep in Wilds?”

The other person pulled down his hood to reveal that he was in fact an elf, with an aquiline nose and bright golden-brown eyes that were set deep under the brow. The elf’s skin was dark enough to be from a northern clan, with black hair done into a multitude of thin braids that were pulled back into a high horsetail.

“I was exploring, much like yourself, I would imagine. Would you care to join me?” the strange elf asked.

Fen’Falon shrugged. He wasn’t attacking, and seemed friendly enough. And oddly familiar, like she had seen him before. Maybe with two heads on the job she could find the Temple again, loathe though she was to reveal it to a stranger.

“It couldn’t hurt, I guess,” Fen’Falon said. She moved fully into the clearing and set her pack down. “Do you have a name, stranger?”

“I am called Shimael,” he replied. “And you?”

“My name is Fen’Falon.”

“The Inquisitor?!”

Fen’Falon groaned. “Not anymore. Please, don’t think about it. I’d really rather not.”

Shimael was silent for a moment. “As you desire,” he finally said.

Fen’Falon thought the phrasing odd, but quickly put it aside as Shimael brought out a cooking pot. It had been more than a month since Fen’Falon split from Zevran and Aemry, and she had missed having hot meals instead of Dalish trail rations.

“I have pheasant and some local greens in the pot for stew,” Shimael told her as he stirred. “You would be welcome to share with me.”

“Thank you,  _ falon _ .” The elvhen woman set about unpacking the materials she would need for the rest of the night and unrolled her bedroll to claim space in the clearing. While Shimael cooked, Fen’Falon pulled out a whetstone and sharpened the bladed ends of her staff. A small pick allowed her to remove dirt and sand from the staff’s grip, and by the time Shimael declared the stew to be ready, Fen’Falon’s staff was back in proper fighting condition.

Fen’Falon joined Shimael at the pot, and the two ate in companionable silence. When Fen’Falon had eaten her fill, something that had been quietly nagging at her mind was brought to the fore.

“You seem familiar, Shimael, have we met before?” she asked.

Shimael smirked and set his bowl down. “I thought you would never notice.”

Shimael waved a hand and a shimmering barrier suddenly enclosed the entire clearing, neatly trapping Fen’Falon.

“ _ Fenedhis _ ,” Fen’Falon spat.

“Oh no, not here, you silly mage.”

“Who the  _ fuck _ are you?”

“You don’t remember me? I’m hurt, Fen’Falon Lavellan, hurt I tell you.” Shimael seemed to grow taller as he stood, and with another gesture an illusion was laid over his shape. The illusion was of a pale human male with dark brown hair and dark eyes. The illusion wore mage robes with black feathered shoulders and an open front.

“Do you remember me now, Fen’Falon Lavellan?” Shimael asked. “Or was my trick with my name too much for your simple mortal mind?”

Fen’Falon was confused for a long moment before her mind finally caught up. The illusory face, the voice - the  _ name _ . She was an idiot. An idiot to have forgotten, an idiot to have agreed to share camp, an idiot to have made any kind of  _ choice _ with this creature. Fen’Falon’s tired mind had finally put the pieces together, just in time to realise just how much trouble she was in. Choice would be the death of her, she was sure, for this was no elven wanderer she had stumbled across. The creature in camp with her was Imshael, and Fen’Falon was royally screwed.


	13. Deals Struck Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For pt 1, see "The Sky and the Wolf"

“I am so very sad that you forgot me, Fen’Falon,” Imshael crooned at the mage. The illusion he had cast fell away from his current body as he approached Fen’Falon.

“Stay the  _ Void _ away from me,” Fen’Falon said. She rushed to her feet to make a break for her staff. In response, Imshael raised a hand and flung Fen’Falon’s staff and pack farther away.

“No matter how hard you try, my  _ dear _ , this is not something you can escape. I’ve come to collect on our little deal.” Imshael sounded smug, and Fen’Falon hated him.

“Soon you’ll have to make a choice that could change the world. Or destroy it. It really depends on which side you’ll end up on. But you won’t have that choice - you made yours months ago in Orlais, little mage. And again when you left your friends behind on this quest. So really, it’s just a choice you’ve been making all along.

“But in this moment, it’s time to pay for the choice you’ve already made. I gave you your desire, provided you with extra power at Suledin’s Keep. And for my payment, for my end of the deal…” Imshael paused.

“I paid you already!” Fen’Falon shouted. “I let you go when I could have ended you!”

Imshael laughed a deep, mocking laugh. “And you thought it would be that easy? Choices are  _ hard _ dear girl. And right now, you have a new one to make, because I am so very fond of choices.”

“Fuck you! I hope Andruil shoots your cock off you miserable little--” Imshael wiggled his fingers at Fen’Falon and cut off any sound she made.

“That wasn’t nice. Now, nod for the first and shake your head for the second, here is your choice: I take a walk through the choices you’ve made or I take your choices for the rest of your days.”

Fen’Falon’s eyes widened - neither was a choice she wished to make. Fen’Falon snarled soundlessly at Imshael and lunged towards him. Imshael held a hand up, palm facing out, and Fen’Falon ran into an invisible wall between them both.

“Choose, Inquisitor, or I may just choose  _ for _ you,” Imshael warned.

Fen’Falon had a feeling that the second option was a nicer way of saying that Imshael would possess her body, which meant the only good option was the first. She took a deep breath, then nodded deliberately at the demon.

“A walk through your choices it is, Inquisitor.” Imshael grinned predatorily. “Shall we get comfortable? Do sit down, this may take a while.” He motioned over to the neglected campfire, and Fen’Falon grudgingly sat near it.

With the barrier still shimmering around the edges of the clearing, Fen’Falon had no option but to allow Imshael to ‘collect’ whatever it was he was after. The demon moved to stand directly in front of Fen’Falon and with a quick jab at her head knocked the elvhen mage unconscious.

Unseen to Fen’Falon, Imshael sat behind her and repositioned her so that her back leant against his chest. To the rest of the world, the two looked like lovers cuddling. Imshael raised both his hands and held them to either side of Fen’Falon’s head.

 

* * *

 

Imshael was not gentle as he wound his way through Fen’Falon’s mind, and if he had not silenced her prior to starting this little walk, her physical body would have been screaming. Imshael worked quickly to reach the oldest of the moments he was interested in.

The self-proclaimed choice spirit watched as Fen’Falon made the decision to spy on the Conclave. As Fen’Falon chose to pick up the orb that Corypheus had wielded to try and tear the world asunder.

Imshael watched as Fen’Falon started her conversations with Solas, as she ran simple errands for the Inquisition advisors, as she allowed Iron Bull and Dorian and Cole into her circle of friends.

The spirit slowed his mind-walk when he reached the impossible choice made at Adamant - to sacrifice either Hawke or Warden Stroud. To Fen’Falon, it hadn’t been a hard choice at all, but Imshael found it interesting nonetheless. The interaction with the Nightmare demon had also been interesting, though ultimately he was not surprised that it had died. Small-time demons like that were beneath his notice. 

The next moment of interest involved Imshael himself - Fen’Falon’s decision to take the choice that had led to the present time. To Imshael, he hadn’t been surprised, because  _ of course _ the weak mortals want more power. To Fen’Falon however, the choice had been set for slightly more altruistic reasons. Entertainingly, the power he had gifted to Fen’Falon had been a small drop in the bucket compared to her current state.

Imshael followed Fen’Falon’s rush from Suledin’s Keep to the Emerald Graves, and through the Graves into the Arbor Wilds. The demon saw Fen’Falon dispatch the Red Templars that were guarding for Samson. Then, another choice - follow the Templars into the bowels of the Temple, or proceed with reverence for Mythal’s sanctum. 

Imshael skipped past the decision surrounding taking in the Well of Sorrows - there was no need to induce a headache by watching that too far into the process. He watched from the Inquisition’s return to Skyhold all the way to the battle with Corypheus, noting with interest the loan of a dragon from Mythal. 

The final battle with Corypheus was certainly interesting to watch, and even the peculiarity surrounding Fen’Falon’s relationship with the Solas elf was relevant there. For a brief moment Imshael wondered if he could arrange a deal with Solas, just to see the reasoning behind the choices made by the older mage.

He watched as within weeks of the defeat of Corypheus, Fen’Falon lost all desire for choosing of any sort. That was disappointing to him. Fen’Falon’s dream or vision, however, felt bright and alive in a way that many of the other memories did not. This was no mortal dream - this was a vision of an event as it happened, though Fen’Falon did not know it. He watched as though from an outsider’s perspective as Solas approached the white-haired woman.

“ _ You should not have given him your orb, Dread Wolf _ ,” the woman said. When Solas replied, confirming that the woman was speaking to the elf, Imshael pulled himself out of Fen’Falon’s mind very rapidly.

Imshael came back to himself with a jolt, breathing heavily. 

“Shit,” he said. Fen’Falon’s eyes were still dull and glazed over, and likely would be for hours yet - the desire demon had not been gentle with her mind.  Maybe if the demon pretended he’d never done this, he could escape the Wolf’s wrath.

Imshael hurriedly undid the many illusions he had around the clearing - the tent, the pack he had claimed, all disappeared into nothingness. The campfire, pot, and food had been real enough, and those he used magic to bury deep into the ground. Soon, the only things left were Fen’Falon’s bedroll and pack. A wave of his hand removed the silencing spell on the elvhen woman, and a second wave dropped the barrier from around the clearing.

Imshael disappeared with a pop.

Fen’Falon lay where she had been left by the desire demon, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were open but unfocused, and her mind was lost wandering through memories of Solas. Their first kiss in the Fade overlaid on Haven, their travels through Crestwood and the Fallow Mire. The feel of his calloused hand against her jaw line as he tilted her face up to meet his, the softness of his lips against hers and the way her chest pressed into his as he pulled her in closer.

The elvhen mage wandered through her own mind for hours, deep into nightfall in the Wilds. Small creatures chirped and buzzed, a small insect of some kind enjoyed a twilight snack from Fen’Falon’s skin, and an inquisitive rabbit took a risk to sniff at Fen’Falon’s motionless body before running off when the ferns nearby rustled.

A pale-furred wolf nosed at Fen’Falon’s face, pressing its cold nose against her forehead to wake her up.

Fen’Falon came back to herself groggily, her head filled with fuzz and her mouth dry as bones left in the desert. She put a hand on the wolf and grasped its fur tightly to assist her in standing. The wolf nudged the back of Fen’Falon’s knees and whined.

“What is it, friend?” she asked the wolf. The wolf trotted ahead of Fen’Falon a short ways, then paused to look back at the woman and whined again.

“Alright, if you insist.” Fen’Falon walked up to the wolf, which then moved forwards deeper into the forest. Fen’Falon followed this pattern until the wolf stopped at a stream, likely an offshoot of the great river that led to Mythal’s Temple. The wolf drank from the stream, then waited and watched as Fen’Falon did the same.

Fen’Falon followed the wolf for much of the night, unable to focus on much except that the wolf was an old friend and helping her. Eventually though, between travelling during the day and whatever Imshael had done as part of his deal, Fen’Falon could walk no further and collapsed against a wide-trunked tree. The wolf blinked at the mage, then curled against her side as she fell asleep, untroubled by dreams.


	14. Ravens' Wings

Fen’Falon woke the next morning to the sound of rustling nearby. Large rustling. The elvhen woman surged to her feet and checked her pack before settling it across her shoulders, then ran in the opposite direction of the noise as quickly and quietly as she could.  After some time, her pace slowed to a more normal walking pace, hampered by the foliage of the Wilds.

“Is that…?” Fen’Falon muttered to herself. In the distance she could see a tall golden stone column, just like those from the Temple of Mythal. It wavered and warped slightly as she stared, and Fen’Falon rubbed her eyes with a bit of cloth. The column remained. 

“Finally,” she breathed, and set out after the column. After a while the sun began to set, and still she was no closer to the column. In fact, if she didn’t know better, Fen’Falon could think it was moving away from her on purpose. Temples didn’t move, after all. The mage bedded down for the night in the shadow of a great tree, hidden from sight by a smattering of ferns and bushes that grew near the base.

The morning grew unbearably warm after Fen’Falon moved from her small camp, and Fen’Falon had soon stripped down to just a simple shift top and light leggings. Still she felt overheated, and she took to wading down a small stream to at least keep her feet cool.

Night fell, and with the loss of the sun, Fen’Falon suddenly became chilled. She layered every scrap of clothing she had, and still she shivered in her tent. She woke up sweating in the middle of night and removed clothing until she felt normal again. Fen’Falon woke up again, later, shivering once more.

“ _ Fenedhis _ ,” she cursed. Unable to sleep the night through, unable to get comfortable enough to even attempt it again, Fen’Falon gave up. She packed her tent back into her bag, haphazardly stuffing the random bits of clothing in after the tent. She pulled a fruit she had saved out of one of the pockets and bit into it as she continued walking towards the partially broken column that meant she was in range of the Temple of Mythal.

In the small hours of the night, before the dawn, the jungled Arbor Wilds were eerily quiet. Fen’Falon finished the fruit and threw its core into a nearby fern, startling the bird that had been sleeping in the leaves. 

An hour later the fruit came back up and out of Fen’Falon’s mouth. A torn scrap of fabric was enough to clean off her face, but getting the vile taste out of her mouth had to wait until she found another stream. Fen’Falon drank greedily from it, spitting out the first few mouthfuls until the sickening taste of the fruit was gone from her mouth.

The sun rose, and with it the heat returned. Fen’Falon stopped before midday to catch and cook a nug, and took the opportunity to reorganise her backpack. Halfway through putting things back into her backpack, the nug meat came back up as well and left Fen’Falon clutching her stomach and gasping for air. She rinsed her mouth thoroughly at a stream and cursed into the thick jungle air.

“Maybe the nug was sick,” the mage muttered to herself. She continued walking towards the Temple column in the distance, careful to avoid creature lairs and traps set by hunters. Fen’Falon alternated between chilled to her core and overheating over the course of the afternoon and eventually gave up on using clothing to try and compensate for the temperature imbalance.

Fen’Falon crossed a wide, shallow creek and blinked as unfiltered sunlight beamed down into her eyes. The light stung greatly, so Fen’Falon put a hand up to shade her eyes as she crossed the creek. On the other side was a small patch of cleared grass next to one of the large Arbor Wilds trees.

“Perfect,” Fen’Falon said. She set her pack down and leaned against it to take a quick nap, as the walk had left her tired as well as oddly cold.

She woke in the night to a hooting call, as if from an owl. Large-sounding rustling from behind her pulled Fen’Falon into full wakefulness - she grabbed her pack quickly and ran in the opposite direction as fast as she could. Fen’Falon dodged trees and ferns, and jumped over roots. She splashed through a trickle of water, always running towards the Temple column she had been following for days.

Fen’Falon caught herself just before she tripped over a root that bent up out of the soil. She took the opportunity to catch her breath, desperate gasps for air that eventually gave way to more even, measured breaths. The mage woman began to cough with a wet wheezing sound and a sensation in her throat that brought tears to her eyes. Exhausted from the lack of sleep, the desperate run, and the lengthy coughing fit, Fen’Falon pulled her pack off her shoulders and leaned against a tree to try and sleep once more.

The elvhen woman faded in and out of true sleep for the remainder of the night, never quite managing to achieve the dreaming state needed. She woke several times as she gently tipped over to one side or the other, and at every noise that could belong to one of the large predators that frequented the Wilds.

Dawn came with heat and a sticky sensation that appeared to glue all her clothes to her skin. Insects protested the climbing temperature, and the forest animals fell silent as they sought refuge under overhangs, in streams, or in deep caves.

Fen’Falon gave up on her attempt at sleep and tried to stand. She managed to make it halfway to her feet before her legs simply gave out, shaking uncontrollably and unable to support her weight. Fen’Falon slid gracelessly to the ground into a heap of limbs and began to cough again. She coughed and coughed until her throat was sore, her eyes red and leaking water. The cough left her feeling very weak, and after a particularly painful bout Fen’Falon found her breath wheezed in her lungs like a dying mabari.

She lay there on the ground for hours, unable to move. Her throat hurt so much from the coughing that she was unable to speak either, not even capable of calling for help - assuming there was anyone else in the Wilds to hear her calls.

Fen’Falon was not aware of passing out on the forest floor, shivering even in her fugue state. She did not wake when an Inquisition scout tasked with keeping an eye on the Wilds found her, nor when the same scout carried her unconscious body to the scout’s camp and into a tent warmed by a carefully shielded fire. She did not notice as the scout did his best to make her comfortable and attempted to bring Fen’Falon’s raging fever down. Fen’Falon did not stir when the Inquisition scout penned a missive to Skyhold and sent it by raven.

_ My friends, _

_ I have found our missing cousin! However, she is quite sick at the moment and cannot yet be moved from our last camping spot. I do not know how our cousin came to be here, but please send help and medicine if possible. Without either, or without assistance to return our cousin home, I am not certain she will make it much longer. _

_ Be swift as Raven’s wings, _

_ Ana _

In a high tower among frozen mountains, surrounded by ravens, a pale-skinned elven hand tightened around a recent missive. The elven woman’s expression grew tense briefly before control was regained. A more deeply coded copy was sent by raven to the west, and a response returned to the Inquisition scout posted at the very edge of the Arbor Wilds and the Emerald Graves.

When the news was brought to the War Room, the remaining advisors kept from exploding into action, providing only the bare minimum orders necessary to return the Inquisitor to Skyhold while maintaining the fiction they had told the Inquisition for the better part of a year.


	15. An Unwanted Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this penultimate bridge chapter finished. The next chapter will take us into the non-DLC epilogue material and the prelude of Trespasser.

Fen’Falon woke to faint green light that streamed in through the tent flaps in front of her. Confused, she looked around her at the tent, then at the sleeping mat and blankets she had piled all around her. She had no recollection of setting down to camp for the night, much less pitching her tent and going to sleep. And yet she had clearly done so - she was even wearing only her undershirt and breeches.

The first order of business, Fen’Falon decided, would be to rinse out the puffed cotton feeling from her mouth. She walked out of the tent and stopped.

“Who in the Void are you?” Fen’Falon demanded of the stranger sat upon a log and staring at Fen’Falon. And how did I get to the Emerald Graves, she left unsaid.

The stranger stood and revealed himself to be an Inquisition Scout, human, and one of Liliana’s specialists if the raven brooch was any indicator. Fen’Falon pursed her lips and wondered how the scout managed to find her, but said nothing.

“You’re very sick,” the scout said. “I would not recommend moving overmuch. The strain might be enough to make it worse, and I have orders to ensure you remain in one piece.”

“Orders,  _ shem _ ? Screw you, screw your orders, and screw the Inquisition.  _ Fenedhis _ . I’m not going back. Got orders for that, too?”

“Yes.”

Fen’Falon narrowed her eyes and readied a quick ice spell, gathering the necessary energy in her right hand. Difficult, without her staff as a focus, but well within her capabilities after beating down a raging would-be god more than a year ago.

The scout crouched into a fighter’s positioning and drew a cudgel. “My orders are to keep you in one piece, and bring you home,” he said.

“Like hell you will.” Fen’Falon cast the freezing spell at the scout. Instead of turning the scout into an out-of-season icicle, the spell backfired when the Mark on her left hand flared and opened a new crack underneath her skin that reached nearly to her elbow. Fen’Falon collapsed in pain and the world went dark, again.

She awakened days later, somewhere on the edge of the Emerald Graves and the Exalted Plains, and trussed up so tightly she couldn’t even wiggle. The Inquisition Scout was across from her, with a campfire on his other side, likely to prevent Fen’Falon from trying to fling ashes or cinders at him or burn the ropes off.

“I hope the Dread Wolf rips your head off,  _ shemlen _ ,” spat Fen’Falon.

“No more of that out of you,” the man said. He used an eating knife to pluck some unidentifiable meat off a skewer near the fire. Using his fingers, he delicately popped the bite-sized chunk into Fen’Falon’s mouth right as she opened it to curse him out in Elven.

Thrice-damned Inquisition. Thrice-damned bloody scout. Fen’Falon vowed to personally ensure this man died in the next incident that came up. Or push him off a cliff near Skyhold herself, if the opportunity arose.

After food came liquids, embarrassingly delivered via a funnel. Fen’Falon fumed and froze the waterskin. Two potions were poured down her throat and suddenly Fen’Falon was a prisoner in her own body, until she fell asleep.

This incident defined the unhappy pair’s pattern for the next month as they slowly made their way to Skyhold, with minor variations in food, cursing, and an increasingly large radius of frost as Fen’Falon grew more furious.

Crossing through Emprise du Lion made Fen’Falon’s heart ache. The statues of Fen’harel reminded her of discussions late at night with Solas.

When they made it to the soldiers’ encampment outside Skyhold keep, the scout brought Fen’Falon into a tent near the keep-side edge under the cover of night, then left Fen’Falon there for more than an hour. The scout returned and force-fed Fen’Falon a potion that made her fall asleep again.

She woke near dusk the next day, her mind already plotting ways to escape from Skyhold. If the Eluvian in the Temple of Mythal was truly active again, and Morrigan remained in the keep, that was the best chance the elven mage had for an undetected exodus.

The male scout from the Arbor Wilds was also in the tent, more alert than Fen’Falon had seen him since their first week traveling together. She was reasonably certain that he was waiting for something.

Unwilling to talk to the scout, Fen’Falon instead resorted to meditation. Her mind almost immediately turned to the Mark in the palm of her left hand, and the cracks that had grown down from it towards her elbow. Only three for now - the large one that opened when she attempted to freeze the scout, and two smaller ones from the flare-ups during her travels with Zevran and Aemry. She wondered if she was ever going to see the amorous pair of elves again, and if they made it to Tevinter to investigate whatever had worried them.

Worry circled her thoughts back around to Solas, and the strange dreams she had been having for the last year and then some. Sometimes she watched as if from a bystander perspective, but the most vivid had her as Solas, like the dream in which he spoke with Abelas and reactivated the Eluvian in the Temple of Mythal. Logically, the dreams were just fevered imaginations brought on by the devastatingly cruel manner in which Solas had left her and then vanished. But some gut part of the Fen’Falon was equally convinced that the dreams meant something. Something that meant Solas was still needed on more than a personal level.

Fen’Falon’s meditations and musing was interrupted when a new person entered the tent. To her surprise, it was fully dark outside - she had been meditating for more than an hour, if she had to guess.

The newcomer threw back a thick fur-lined hood and showed themselves to be Commander Cullen. New age lines creased the corners of his eyes, making him look years older. For the most part the rest of him was the same. A fur-lined and edged cloak over steel plate and Inquisition tabards in red and gold, a military bearing that belied his Templar origins, and an air of a man who has seen horrors no one should have to even hear about.

“Thank you, Scout Nathan. You’re dismissed,” Cullen told the scout. He turned to Fen’Falon, who tensed under his appraising gaze. “Was all of this really necessary?”

Fen’Falon assumed he was referring to the ropes that still bound her and shrugged as best she could. Cullen pulled a belt knife and carefully sliced the ropes off her.

“Please don’t run, Inquisitor. We’ve had a difficult enough time hiding your absence from the troops and the rest of the world. You’ve had your time to yourself, but now we need the Inquisitor back. Things are moving in the world again, though Lady Montilyet will have a better understanding of that than I.”

Fen’Falon grimaced. “I never wanted to come back,” she said quietly.

“Inquisitor, the situation isn’t ideal, and believe me, I understand better than most about becoming stuck in a position. But the world will not listen to just the three of us, not without you. We can talk more in the keep, Cassandra, Lady Montilyet, and I have worked out an agreement that should be tempting for you, if not at least tolerable. I will be bringing you into the keep tonight secretly, so please no more talking. You will sleep in your chambers with guards posted on the balconies and at the doors - for your protection, you understand. And in the morning we will have a War Room meeting to discuss your future with the Inquisition. Understood, Inquisitor Lavellan?”

“Understood,” Fen’Falon bit out. Trapped again as a figurehead. The only advantage Fen’Falon could see here would be the ability to use Leliana’s spy network to hunt for Solas.

Cullen backed away from Fen’Falon so that he no longer had her cornered in the tent. He removed his cloak and passed it to her.

“Here,” he said. “Cover yourself with this. Let no one see Andraste’s Mark or your face. We will walk swiftly to the gatehouse and from there to your chambers in Skyhold keep. Scout Nathan has already brought your things into the keep.”

Fen’Falon murmured her assent and followed Cullen out of the tent. They passed through the tent encampment at a brisk walk, then slowed as mountain snow covered the path to the gatehouse. Only a handful of footprints lead in either direction through the snow, but none deviated from the path. The gatehouse was manned by a pair of guards, who waved Cullen through and onto the bridge.

Despite everything, it felt like coming home when Cullen and Fen’Falon entered Skyhold’s courtyard. Fen’Falon hated the part of herself that felt relieved to be back in the keep. The courtyard was empty at this time of night, although Fen’Falon did wonder what had happened to Cole after she left. Poor spirit trapped in a child’s body didn’t deserve what happened in the Inquisition.

Fen’Falon’s chambers at the top of the leftmost tower were exactly as she had left them, save for the guards on the balconies. 

“I’ll leave you to your rest, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, then bowed and exited down the tower stairs.

“ _ Fen’harel ma halam _ ,” Fen’Falon replied.

She dreamt that night of Imshael, of a tearing sensation in her mind, and of Solas’s hands cool upon her forehead. At the last, Fen’Falon fell into the first true sleep she had experienced in more than a year.


	16. Shatter Me

Mornings hadn’t felt this unfriendly since Solas left. Fen’Falon got out of bed and dressed in a semi-fugue state, her body moving like a golem while her mind stalled on processing the fact that she was back in Skyhold. She barely registered the guards on her balconies, the clothing she put on, or the pervasive chill in her rooms, beyond wearing a thicker fabric tunic than she might otherwise have chosen.

Fen’Falon left frost flowers behind on every surface her fingers touched, the trail leading clear from her bedclothes to the doors of the War Room. She entered without knocking and found that only Cassandra had yet made it to the table. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt real.

Four long arched windows graced the wall at the back of the room, flanked by banners held by the Inquisition and torches in iron stands. A further four torches lined the side walls, with yet another two on either side of the War Room doors. The large wood table remained in the center of the room, the same map with the same marking pieces strewn across it.

The mage and the warrior waited for Lady Montilyet and Cullen to arrive. When they did, Josephine rapped her pen against her clipboard and began the meeting, her clipped Antivan accent sounding more foreign than ever on Fen’Falon’s ears, despite having traveled with Zevran for half of a year. 

“It is good to have you back, Inquisitor,” Josephine said. “There is much to catch up on.” 

Fen’Falon realised slowly that Leliana was missing. “Where is Leliana?” 

“That is a part of what we must catch you up to, Inquisitor. The world has changed in the year since you left, and much is different.” 

Cullen took over from Josephine, “The Inquisition holds more power than ever, with the defeat of Corypheus and the closing of the Breach. Orlais and Ferelden look to us for assistance, although there have been grumblings of discontent from both.” 

“The Chantry called for their vote,” Cassandra said. “Leliana has been elected the new Divine Victoria and has already put out an official proclamation to disband the Circles and legitimise the Inquisition fully. With her new position, she has left Charter as our new Spymaster.” 

“Empress Celene and her acknowledged lover Briala are very friendly to us,” Josephine said. “Especially after your performance during the incident at the Winter Palace.” 

“ _Halamshiral_ ,” Fen’Falon muttered to herself. 

“Yes,” replied Josephine. “As you ordered at Adamant, the Wardens have been banished from Ferelden and Orlais, with nearly all of them now gone from both domains. Unfortunately, we have been unable to confirm if Hawke arrived at Weisshaupt to lead them.” 

“Morrigan left with her son not long after you ran off,” Cullen cut in. “The eluvian went with her, somehow, thank the Maker.” He ran a hand through short-cropped hair and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Fen’Falon remembered that the Commander had never been comfortable with Morrigan.  

“The world is at peace now, save for the usual rumbling from Tevinter and the Qunari,” Cassandra said. “More immediately important, however, is the state of the Inquisition itself.” 

“Blackwall left within days of you,” said Cullen, “and our Scouts have been unable to trace him for now, though Charter assures us she has leads. Vivienne returned to Orlais, and reports say that she has founded a College of Enchanters to replace the Circle. Dorian was recalled to Tevinter, but left you a message stone. It has been placed in your quarters on one of the tables, along with his note to you. Cassandra’s favourite storyteller, Varric, has gone back to Kirkwall. Rumour has it he may be made Viscount. Remaining with us are the Iron Bull, and Cole, when anyone can find him. The Iron Bull especially has missed you.” 

Josephine nodded. “In your absence, we three have been dodging nobles, lying to our soldiers, and placating those who came seeking your help.” 

“ _Your_ help, you mean,” Fen’Falon said bitterly. “I have only ever been a figurehead for you four.” 

“You have been allowed to make decisions,” said Cullen. 

Fen’Falon barked a short, cynical laugh and spread her arms wide with the palms of her hands up.  

“Never the ones that mattered,” she retorted. Fen’Falon cut Josephine’s next word off and pointed at the Antivan. “And _you_...the decisions you took from me led to the death of everyone I ever cared about. My clan is _gone_ , Dread Wolf curse you and your line. I have _no one_!” 

Ice rime crept across the war table, reaching jagged spires out over the edge of the table in an attempt to touch each of the advisors. 

“Inquisitor, please remain calm,” Cassandra said. Fen’Falon glared at the warrior woman. Cassandra’s eyes flicked to Cullen, and Fen’Falon followed the gaze to see Cullen grasping a lyrium vial in one shaking hand.

With effort, Fen’Falon took a deep breath and pulled the rime back into nothingness. Being smote now would accomplish nothing save leaving her shaky and weak for days. 

“What do you fucking _shemlen_ want from me, then?” Fen’Falon demanded. 

Josephine unclipped a piece of paper from the stack on her clipboard and passed it to Fen’Falon. 

“You wrote me a schedule?” 

Josephine tapped the paper with a lacquered nail. “Yes, Inquisitor. For set periods of time each day, you will preside over issues presented to the Inquisition for judgement. Myself or Charter will provide you with our findings on the matter and the recommended decision to be made. Please do not deviate from these. Outside of Judgement Court, you will be guarded at all times - for your own protection, of course. You may go anywhere within the valley.” 

“ _Fen’harel ma halam, dirthara-ma. Fen’harel lasa ghilan._ ” 

“None of that, please,” Cullen said. “You are the Inquisitor, and in public we will expect you to act like it. You cannot run from this, Fen’Falon.” 

Fen’Falon made a rude gesture. “Fine. If that’s all?”

The ‘advisors’ looked to each other before Cassandra replied. “You may go, Inquisitor.”

Fen’Falon spent the rest of the day refusing to eat and setting fire to training dummies. When the pain of the Mark became too great, she switched over to slashing the dummies down with the bladed end of her staff.

She spoke to no one, and left frost flowers in her footsteps.

* * *

Sleep that night came quick and heavy, almost as if she had been drugged again. When the fog of false dreaming scattered, Fen’Falon found herself in the Fade and aware. She hadn’t Dreamed like this since Solas--

As if summoned by her thoughts, the lying elf appeared before her. Around them was the golden stone of previous dreams, the stone used for the Temple of Mythal. Clear blue skies were visible through windows that skirted the edges of historical mosaics. To Fen’Falon’s disappointment, the mosaics were blurred here in the Fade, and she could not make them out.

Solas was wearing a filigreed silver plate pauldron on his left shoulder, and across his right draped a wolf pelt with lush gray fur. Both sat over an older-style Elvhen armour that was nearly a match for that worn by Abelas in the Temple of Mythal, and yet to Fen’Falon something about Solas’s armour suggested nobility or a high rank than that of Abelas. No weapons were visible.

Spurred by Solas’s attire, Fen’Falon appraised herself. She appeared to be wearing the High Keeper robes taken from the remains of her clan, green mottled leather over chainmail with her favoured staff across her back.

Solas turned to face her and the Mark flared, driving Fen’Falon to her knees before him.

He didn’t look surprised to see her. Bastard.

“And so at last you reach me, _vhenan_ ,” Solas said softly.

Fen’Falon dug the nails of her right hand into her left arm, using the additional pain to pull herself upright. She swallowed her anger, her sorrow, the depths of her love for him. None of that would help her, in the Fade, in the Dreaming. Not when she needed his help, as the most powerful mage the Inquisition had seen.

“ _Ma halani, ma fen, ma vhenan_ ,” Fen’Falon begged him.

“ _Da harellan, ir abelas, tel’halani._ I cannot, I cannot. While the empires remain atop their thrones of skulls, while our people yet live in ignorance, I cannot. As the seasons turn, perhaps this will change, and thus too my ability to assist you. I am sorry.”

Solas took three steps forward and raised a hand as if to caress Fen’Falon’s face. He checked himself, then spun on one heel and faded from sight.

Fen’Falon felt more shattered than ever.


End file.
